


Eucatastrophe

by housebigbangmod (zulu)



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Challenge: house big bang, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-25
Updated: 2009-03-25
Packaged: 2017-10-12 19:29:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/housebigbangmod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This story was written by euclase. Dr. House believes there is something unusual living in Lake Carnegie. Strange events unfold as he attempts to prove his theory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Hithah for being my beta and cheerleader and Phinnia and Hannahrorlove for their encouragement and inspiration. The title comes from the mythopoeic concept coined by J.R.R. Tolkien, so thanks to him, too.
> 
> [](http://house-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/19140.html)  
> by [](http://chemina42.livejournal.com/profile)[**chemina42**](http://chemina42.livejournal.com/)
> 
> [](http://house-bigbang.dreamwidth.org/18712.html)  
>  by [](http://oldblue.livejournal.com/profile)[**oldblue**](http://oldblue.livejournal.com/)

It was a soft, cool April afternoon when Wilson strolled onto the dock adjacent to the Princeton University Boathouse.

He paused to admire the boathouse's pale facade, its elegant pointed arches and low-pitched eaves before turning to gaze at the dark, serene waters of Lake Carnegie.

He felt good, fresh from a pleasant lunch with Cuddy. He was dressed in his favorite shirt and his favorite blue checked tie--the one that always won him compliments from the nurses--and his new Italian leather blouson jacket, a birthday present from his department.

None of his patients were currently dying. All of his bills had been paid. He'd picked up his dry cleaning and remembered to buy a bottle of Chateau Martinat for the _other_ Dr. Wilson's engagement party. And his last therapy session had been held over banana-nut muffins while steering clear of any discussions of his relationship with his mother.

All in all, it had been a good day. And as Wilson inhaled the fresh afternoon air, he thought nothing could make it better. Which was exactly why he made a point of not looking to his immediate right, where a small craft was moored to the dock, sloshing in the gentle current, occupied by the one person in the world who could ruin anyone's day.

"You made it," said House cheerfully. "And on very few bread crumbs. I'm impressed."

Wilson felt his pleasant mood turn swiftly to dust.

"You know, they have these devices now," he said. "Called telephones. It's the latest thing."

House wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Bread crumbs are more fun."

"They were goldfish crackers, House. And they didn't need to be _all_ over my desk. One or two would have gotten the point across."

"I'm surprised you didn't assume I was in Honduras," said House.

He was winding rope, creating several cobra-like coils of the stuff on the dock. Wilson frowned at the incongruity of House plus manual labor.

"Somehow, I don't think Lluvia de Peces includes wheat and cheddar cheese," said Wilson, gesturing with his fists jammed in his jacket pockets as if flapping them hard enough might carry him away.

"It does if you draw the Venn diagrams really big," said House.

"It took me over an hour to clean them up," said Wilson. "Where do you even _buy_ that many crackers?"

As he continued to watch House unwind rope, it donned on Wilson just how bizarre it was to see him standing in a boat in the first place.

"What are you doing here, anyway?" he asked.

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

Wilson glanced around. "Well, it looks like you're about to go out on the lake, but that would be irresponsible for a crippled drug addict."

House nodded. "That would be."

"Also, you don't own a boat."

"You don't own a Millennium Falcon."

"So where did you get this one?" asked Wilson.

"Must have been that Nestle Crunch Bar I ate," said House. "Whole thing just came up out of the water. Weirdest thing ever."

Wilson narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Did you steal this from the boathouse?"

"Nope. I _borrowed_ it from the maintenance shed."

"Are the maintenance people aware of this?," asked Wilson.

House hesitated. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"

Wilson sighed. "Great."

He began to take stock of some of the items in the boat. A large landing net was among them, along with a roll of duct tape, a brushed metal Thermos, and battery cables. And two fishing poles that looked decidedly familiar.

"Are those _my_ fishing poles, House?"

"Yep." House picked up the poles and tucked them snugly into the vertical holders on the inside of the boat.

"Please tell me you're not fishing."

"Actually, we are."

Wilson chuckled in disbelief. "Uh, no. We're not."

"Why else would I decorate your office in cheddar-flavored smiles?"

"House, there's no way I'm getting in a boat with you. Especially not a stolen boat on a private race course."

"Relax," said House. "Nobody's around. It's trophy season. The heavyweights are at Cornell, and the lightweights are at Harvard. Besides, this isn't a boat. It's a _Lund_. Huge difference."

"I'm sure." Wilson cocked his head skeptically, then gestured down at the water. "We can't go, anyway. Neither of us has a fishing license."

"You don't need a fishing license to take a boat out on the water."

"You just said we were fishing!"

"Doesn't mean we need a license."

"Yes, because New Jersey Fish and Wildlife is so big on poaching."

"Don't be an idiot. The Millstone's so polluted with mercury you'd have to be in evolutionary denial to let your kids even near it let alone eat the three-headed rainbow trout that swim out of Stony Brook."

Wilson blinked. "Then why--?"

"We're after something else," said House.

He tossed the last coil of rope into the bottom of the boat with a thrumming, metallic slap, then stepped over the bench to sit near the motor.

Wilson gazed skyward as if God might offer some assistance. "House, I don't _want_ to get in that boat with you, but since I know you like I know you, I feel compelled as a citizen of Planet Earth to save you from yourself."

"You're nothing if not predictable." House turned on the motor and gave the tiller a few experimental twists. He leaned forward and patted the bench in front of him invitingly. "Come on, it'll be fun. All Jews like fishing."

* * *

Three hours later, Wilson exhaled a sigh that echoed across the quiet lake. "Wow. You were right, House. This is a riot."

The stolen boat was sitting in the middle of the widest part of the aneurysm-shaped bulge in the river. The water itself was glassy and calm. The sky was clear and cool, and the sun was setting behind the trees and lighting up Cleveland Tower in the distance. Nearer, the Washington Road Bridge spanned the lake, its course stone arches reflecting on the water and forming dark ellipses. Wilson and House had watched plenty of crew races from that bridge over the years, and now, Wilson was keeping a careful eye on the cars that grumbled by, expecting the next one to be the telltale green Jeep of a New Jersey Fish and Wildlife officer.

So far, they hadn't caught a single thing.

Or seen a single fish. Or a crocodile. Or a supermodel. Or whatever it was they were supposed to be looking for.

They also hadn't moved from their current position for over an hour thanks to House's coffee can anchor--or, rather, the anchor that came with the boat that House had stolen. House himself had spent most of that time staring cryptically down at the water.

Wilson had given up asking him what they were supposed to be looking for. Every time he did, House would say either "Amelia Earhart" or "Your Mom" or some lesbian coupling of the two. Now, he was doing his best to simply maintain a cool head despite being trapped aboard a stolen boat while at the same time trying not to imagine too many violent scenarios involving flashing blue lights and helicopter air rescue.

At least they weren't canoeing in Georgia, he thought.

When the shadows of the trees began to stretch across the water, Wilson checked his watch.

"Sun's going down. We should probably think about heading back in."

He watched House for a reaction.

"House?"

"This is the best time," said House.

Wilson glanced around, incredulous. "For _what_?"

"I'll know when we catch it. Which we _will_ just as soon as you decide to shut up."

Wilson pressed his lips together sorely but refused to be put down. "House, if fishing without a license is illegal, then fishing without a license _at night_ is even more illegal."

"I only stole your fishing poles to make it look good."

"So you're going to sit there and stare at the water until--what? Someone hands you Excalibur?"

"Would you stop with the kvetchitude?" House glanced over his shoulder into the bottom of the boat. "Hand me that net."

"Why? You see something?" Wilson leaned forward, curious.

House made an insistent gimme gesture with his hand, so Wilson passed him the net. Then he slid carefully to the side of the boat and joined House in peering down at the water.

"House, you do realize your net's not big enough for a mermaid."

"Ssshh." House lowered the net to the water and let it brush the surface.

Wilson rested his chin on his forearm, resigning himself to watching the cool, dark water and House's hypnotic drawing of the fishing net in silence. Despite House's tense body language, however, there didn't seem to be anything especially interesting over the side of the boat. No fish. No lake monsters. No Honey Ryder.

After a moment, Wilson gave up and refocused his gaze on his and House's reflections.

Not bad, he thought, combing his fingers through his hair as ripples from House's fishing net momentarily garbled the view. Any mermaid would be lucky to have them...

"There!"

Wilson nearly jumped out of his skin at House's shout.

"Did you see that?" House had pulled the net back in the boat and was pointing at the water.

Wilson looked to where House was pointing, expecting to see a humpback whale or a coelacanth at the very least. But there was nothing there.

"I don't see--"

"It's going underneath!"

House dropped the net, whacking Wilson in the arm with it in the process, and launched himself to the opposite side of the boat, presumably to keep up with whatever he'd seen but moving far too quickly for a cripple and prompting a white-knuckle grip from Wilson.

"House, I didn't see anything," said Wilson. He dumped the net over the bench and out of his way.

But House wasn't listening. He reached for one of the fishing poles.

"You said we weren't going to use the poles," said Wilson.

"I said 'we' not 'me.'"

"House, if someone on the shore sees us--"

"They'll what? Call the nearest trust fund baby?"

House snapped open the small Thermos he'd brought along and pulled out what looked like a piece of raw hamburger. Wilson watched in mild horror as he strung it on his fishhook.

"Jesus. We're not _chumming_ for Great Whites."

House loosed the bait into the water with a flick of his wrist, then flicked his fingers at Wilson and sent droplets of lake water onto his jacket.

"This is a Salvatore Ferragamo!" yelled Wilson, furiously brushing droplets of water from the leather. "I swear, House, this had better be the record catfish or something."

"Gosh, I hope not. You'll have to carry it."

They both stared down at House's line in the water, waiting for movement. Nothing seemed to be happening, however.

Wilson was about to take off his jacket to avoid further disaster when suddenly, the fishing line dangling in the water was jerked from the reel. The pole curved sharply in half, and House yelped in surprise and scrambled to get a tighter grip.

"House!"

Wilson lunged forward to help, careless of his jacket, colliding bodily with House and holding onto him to keep him from toppling out of the boat.

House gasped and leaned back on the pole.

"Nggh. He's strong as hell."

"What is it?"

"I don't know." House jerked his hand away to keep the whipping, buzzing line from slicing bare skin. Wilson shifted his grip until he was holding the lower end of the pole while House worked the reel.

The mystery force on the other end took off again, tugging them both forward. Wilson planted his foot against the side of the boat as the entire craft rocked in the water.

"This is crazy," gasped Wilson, palms sweating where he gripped the pole.

"Next time he comes back, I'm going to try and reel him in," gritted House. "You ready?"

"You want me to get the net?"

"No, just--" House strained suddenly, and Wilson had to snatch his hand away to keep the line from cutting into his thumb. "Just hang onto me so I don't die."

Wilson burst out laughing at that, which sent House slipping forward.

"Moron!"

"Sorry!"

Suddenly, the line went slack. House nudged Wilson off his back and immediately began reeling.

"Now, you can get the net," House nodded, brushing away a bead of sweat at his temple.

Wilson reached over the bench for the net, but he stopped when he saw a pair of gloves lying by the motor. He ignored the net and grabbed the gloves instead.

"What are you doing? I said get the net--"

"Net's not going to work," said Wilson. He quickly peeled out of his jacket and tossed it toward the front of the boat and out of harm's way. Then he loosened his tie and ripped it over his head and tossed it aside. "I don't wanna lose my pole to your stupidity."

Wilson pulled on the gloves and slid to the side of the boat, nudging House's legs out of the way. He rolled up his sleeves and reached over the side to grab the straining line.

House guessed what Wilson was planning and moved the pole to help him.

"Should be right underneath you," he said.

Wilson saw a flicker of what looked like a tail in the water. He grasped the pale blue line with his gloved hand.

"This is probably a catfish," he muttered, giving the line a slow, experimental tug.

The next thing he knew, he had a mouthful of lake water as a huge, wet _something_ leapt into the boat and knocked him on his back. It sprayed glittering drops in the air and landed with a loud slap.

Wilson blinked up at the purple sky, momentarily stunned. He glanced over and saw House lying in much the same position. The fishing pole lay between them, its broken line curled into a delicate tangle.

Wilson looked down at their catch.

It was a salmon. Huge--almost a meter in length. The fishhook and a tiny bit of hamburger was still embedded in its lip.

Wilson sat up and grabbed the salmon by its lip. It was too heavy to lift so he propped its weight against his knee. He untangled his foot from the swirl of broken fishing line lying in the bottom of the boat, then retrieved the pliers from House's stash of tools under the middle bench.

House had regained his senses and was staring at him.

Wilson chuckled at House's wide-eyed look of dismay as he worked the pliers into the fishhook in an attempt to free it. "Are you okay?"

"Learn that trick from Jimmy Houston?"

"All Jews like fishing. You said so yourself." Wilson switched hands so he could use his left to work the pliers. "Looks like a chinook salmon. How do you think he got down here?"

The salmon jerked suddenly, and the remaining line snapped. The hook came loose and fell to the bottom of the boat with a plink.

Wilson set aside the pliers and wiped his sweaty brow with the clean back of his gloved hand. He held the salmon up for a better look, admiring its silver body, blushed sides, and black-stained mouth.

"Well, that was definitely exciting. It's not every day you catch a rare Alaskan salmon."

"You mean _I_ caught him."

"With your fishing skills, House, I'm amazed we didn't pull in an oak tree."

Wilson scooted to the side of the boat to ease the salmon back into the water.

"Let's keep it," said House.

Wilson looked up, startled. "What? No."

"Why not?"

"Because he's just been through hell."

"Come on."

"You won, okay, House? You proved your point. There are creatures living in Lake Carnegie."

" _One_ salmon doesn't prove anything."

"How about let's quit while we're ahead, then?"

"But salmon taste good."

"I'm putting him back."

"Would you quit with the pronouns? Maybe him's a her."

"Look, this was one of the more idiotic ideas you've had in a while, but I'm willing to let it go because you actually did catch something."

"Put it in the bottom of the boat," said House. He clambered over the seat to turn on the motor. "You can cook us dinner."

"I'm not cooking anything. I'm putting him back."

"It's not up to you. I caught it. My boat. My charter."

" _Not_ your boat. _Stolen_ boat. _Stolen_ God-knows-what-else."

"Come on, Wilson. It's gotta be the most delicious fish in three states."

"Even if he is, that doesn't mean I want to be the one to cook him and eat him."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously!"

House sighed. "You disappoint me."

"Well, that's a devastating blow to my self esteem. How will I ever recover?"

"No one will know we took him," said House. "He's not even supposed to be here."

"Neither are we. What's your point?"

"If we take him, no one's going to miss him."

Wilson narrowed his eyes. "Wait a second. How did you know he was in the lake in the first place?"

"I didn't."

"But you knew something was in the water, or we wouldn't be out here."

"Maybe I dreamed it," said House. At Wilson's stare, he shrugged helplessly. "What do you want me to say? That it was a feeling I had? I didn't think we'd actually find anything."

"But you're not surprised we did, are you?"

"No," said House.

Wilson looked down at the salmon with renewed curiosity. Whether by cryptoamnesia or accidental observation or sheer, stupid luck, House had managed to lure a nonindigenous fish onto his hook. He'd even stolen a boat to do it.

"Okay," Wilson agreed. "But if we're doing this, we're doing this the right way."

He lay the fish in the bottom of the boat and picked up the pliers. Then he pressed his shoe against the salmon to keep it still. He angled the sharp tip of the pliers at a spot just behind the salmon's beady eye. With a determined thrust, he drove the pliers into the fish's brain.

The salmon flopped once in reflex, then lay lifeless.

Wilson heard the boat motor grumble to life and looked up.

House had a hand on the tiller was watching the mercy killing in rapt fascination.

"You enjoy that?" asked Wilson. He shifted out of the way so the blood from the salmon wouldn't get on his shoes.

"Tomorrow we can rescue a kitten from the pound if it makes you feel better," said House.

* * *

They used the photo House had snapped with his cellphone camera to make sure the boat, the rope, the motor, and all the tools and equipment went back exactly as he'd stolen it from the boat bay.

"See? I plan ahead."

"This isn't planning ahead," said Wilson, who stood back with his hands on his hips, resolutely refusing to help as House flipped the boat over and struggled to prop it against the concrete wall. "This is covering your ass."

"Relax. The maintenance guys only use this boat to string the buoys. They did that weeks ago."

"Oh, so they won't mind if _other_ people take it out the rest of the time? That's reassuring." Wilson glanced over his shoulder toward the open bay.

"Stop looking over your shoulder for the cops."

"How did you break in here, anyway?"

"Captain of the lightweight team gave me a key for the gate," said House. He slung the coils of rope over a hook beside the oar rack where the long, sleek black oars stretched toward the ceiling.

"And... how do you know the captain of the lightweight team? I'm assuming this is the female lightweight team we're talking about."

"Girls Gone Wild. Endless Spring Break. Volume Three." House smiled. "I recognized her by her... well-toned personality."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Is that what they're calling it these days?"

* * *

Wilson made sure House scrubbed every bit of lake crud and fish blood from the bottom of the boat. He also made sure House repaired the broken fishing line, which took a lot longer than either of them expected, but Wilson decided it was worth it in the end for the number of swear words House's lurid teenage mouth managed to produce.

When they finally finished, it was too dark for them to find their way safely back to Wilson's car. They stumbled over ruts and tree roots. House fell twice in the mud. Finally, they emerged on the back street, sniffling in the cold, itching with river muck and lugging a huge dead salmon wrapped in plastic bags between them.

"So much for my coat," sighed Wilson. "Cleaning bill's going to be huge."

"Wasn't that pretty anyway," said House.

"We're taking _your_ car," said Wilson.

"Fine."

When they made it back to House's apartment, Wilson kicked off his muddy shoes and claimed the shower for himself. He used up as much hot water as possible, then emerged stomping barefoot with a towel around his waist, not caring if he dripped all over House's wood floors.

"I'm borrowing some clothes," he announced, trekking into the bedroom.

"Fine," said House, who'd slumped onto the sofa despite being covered in muck.

House showered afterward while Wilson attempted to clean his jacket before the muddy water from the fishing trip could set in. He also gave House's sofa a quick wipe-down; who knew if he'd ever have to sleep on the thing again?

When he was finished, he went into the kitchen and assessed their catch.

The salmon lay on the butcher's block where House had left it. Wilson peeled away the dirty plastic bags, pitched them in the trash, then searched House's kitchen for a fillet knife and paper towels. He slid House's garbage bin strategically in front of the block to catch the salmon entrails.

House emerged from his bath ten minutes later smelling like body wash and shivering as he arrived in the kitchen, dragging an extra shirt over his head and running his fingers through his hair until it stuck out in all directions. He found Wilson in the middle of gutting and cleaning the fish as if he were performing an autopsy. Wilson's fingers were slathered in blood and flecks of silvery scale.

"I should be terrified by how well you handle that knife," said House.

"And yet you're fascinated."

"And yet I'm fascinated." House went to the refrigerator and retrieved two beers.

"Because _I_ actually know what I'm doing," said Wilson

"No need to get all _son-of-Zebedee_ on me."

House yanked open a drawer and located a bottle opener. He popped the caps on both bottles, tossed the bent caps in the sink, then nudged the drawer shut with his hip as he picked up one of the bottles and took a long swallow.

"How did you know there was something in the lake?" asked Wilson.

"I'm actually a Psi Cop," said House. "The Core is Mother. The Core is Father."

"You know I don't believe it was just a dream."

"That's your problem," said House. "You believe too much."

"How is it 'believing too much' when I just said I didn't believe you?"

"You over-believe. It's called being suspicious."

Wilson snorted a laugh and was about to say something when his knife blade struck hard metal. He gasped.

"Okay?" House leaned closer.

"Yeah." Wilson pulled his hand back to see what he'd hit. "You gotta be kidding me," he muttered under his breath when he saw what it was: a silver ring.

House looked over Wilson's shoulder. "Wow. You _are_ a good cook."

Wilson picked up the silver ring with bloodstained fingers and stared at it in amazement.

"It's like the Poetic Edda," said House.

"Song of the Nibelungs," said Wilson.

"Gesundheit."

"No, I mean, you're thinking of the Song of the Nibelungs. That's the one with the ring, not the Eddas."

"Frodo's the one with the ring," said House. "And I'm thinking of a very smart fish."

"And you'd be wrong, because it was actually the Irish who came up with the story about the salmon. And neither of those has to do with a fish swallowing a ring."

House rolled his eyes. "Just cook the damn fish," he said.

* * *

Wilson grilled the fillets to a sizzling gold-pink, re-familiarizing himself with House's kitchen in the process--"How can a person have _five_ spatulas and _no_ tongs?"

There was plenty of leftover fish, so he wrapped up the remaining planks and stuffed them in House's freezer next to the banana popsicles.

They ate in the living room over reruns of _Xena_ and both agreed it was a delicious salmon.

"I'll say this once--" Wilson raised his fork.

"Oh, here we go."

"You have a _fantastic_ sense of timing."

"Seriously, do you mind? I'm in like bonertopia here with the babes and the swords."

"You should have been a fisherman, House."

House took a swig of beer between bites of salmon. "Noted."

"I personally wouldn't have stolen the boat in the first place, but--"

"But you're a coward. And _borrowed_ , not stolen."

"--But you impressed me today. And I'll admit it, I had fun."

House looked over at him. "Finished, McMurphy?"

Wilson waved his fork in the air magnanimously. "Just thought it needed to be said."

* * *

After dinner, Wilson washed dishes while House leaned in the doorway and theorized about where the silver ring could have come from. Wilson was relieved when he finally stopped calling it "Precious."

"Sharks swallow strange crap all the time," said House. He flipped the ring in the air and caught it like a coin. "If we'd pulled in a bull shark instead of a chinook, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Yeah, but salmon don't eat license plates. They eat other fish."

"Probably some local poacher planning to stock his own private pond," said House.

"There have been plenty of stories about people losing their rings while fishing," said Wilson. "Probably one in every local newspaper in the country at some point. This could be one of those."

"It's a huge coincidence that we actually caught it, but whatever."

"You mean it's not as interesting as involving Gandalf." Wilson finished washing and dried his hands. House flipped the ring into the air again, and Wilson reached out and caught it. "You dry," he said, handing House the towel.

House took the towel and moved to the sink. Wilson watched him, amused. House's brain was clearly on autopilot; Wilson could probably have asked him to paint the walls, and he wouldn't have put up a fight, so long as he had that puzzle.

"Think it's real silver?" wondered Wilson, turning the ring over in his fingers.

House stopped drying long enough to sling the dish towel over his shoulder and step over to the refrigerator.

Wilson raised an eyebrow, watching him. "Are you... still hungry?"

House pulled a squeeze bottle of yellow mustard from the door and handed it to Wilson. "Lighter's in the drawer under the toaster," he said.

"Sulfur test," nodded Wilson. "Okay, then."

Wilson found the Bic lighter easily enough, then dabbed a smidgen of mustard on the silver ring while House went back to drying dishes.

"You know, this might actually be worth some money," Wilson babbbled as he fought with the lighter under his thumb. "If it's real silver."

"Only way we'll find out is if you shut up and perform the test," said House as he put away a plate.

Wilson finally got the lighter lit and held the silver ring over the flame. The mustard reacted with the silver in the ring and turned it black.

"And we have a winner," said House. He grabbed the mustard and tossed it back in the refrigerator, then dug deep in the back and pulled out an ancient-looking bottle of apple cider vinegar. "Now you can clean it off."

Wilson flashed him an annoyed look as he took the bottle and went to the sink. He grudgingly set to cleaning off the black stain he'd made on the ring.

"Did you notice if it was in Mr. Limpet's stomach?" asked House.

Wilson sniffed as the pungent vinegar irritated his sinuses. "I didn't puncture any of the organs, if that's what you mean. Why?"

"What if he didn't swallow the ring?" asked House.

"What other possibility is there?"

"Someone could have put it there."

"Like... an implant?" Wilson gave House a confused look over his shoulder.

"Most fish heal pretty quickly. He'd have to have been young, though, otherwise he'd die of infection."

"It's a pretty big ring, House. A little too big for alien conspiracies."

"Some eccentric wacko looking for a good place to hide his treasure, maybe."

"Yeah, and _maybe_ there are other fish with other hunks of metal in them swimming around the state of New Jersey." Wilson rinsed off his hands and twisted the cap back onto the bottle of vinegar. "The salmon didn't have to be in the lake. And the silver ring didn't have to be inside the salmon. And we didn't _have_ to go fishing."

"Isn't entropy nifty?" House grinned.

Wilson dried his hands. Then, out of curiosity, he began trying to fit the ring over his damp fingers.

"No chance," said House. "You've got Swedish Chef hands. Let me try."

House took the ring from Wilson and slid it onto the middle finger of his left hand. It stuck at his knuckle for a moment, then slipped past for a snug fit.

"Ta da."

"And now it's stuck there," said Wilson.

"It's not stuck." House tried to tug the ring back off, but sure enough, it wouldn't budge.

"Good job," said Wilson.

House went to the sink and ran cold water over his finger. When that didn't work, he tried Chapstick. Then he tried Vaseline. Then he tried the graphite lubricant normally reserved for his guitar.

"I think it likes me," said House.

"Let me try," said Wilson.

Wilson used everything he could think of: scotch tape, soap, cooking oil, and finally dental floss.

"You know way too many tricks for getting rid of rings," said House, wincing as Wilson unwound the pinching dental floss after it had proven ineffective. "No wonder you were divorced three times."

"I think you're stuck with it," said Wilson, flicking the dental floss into the trash. "Congratulations."

* * *

Wilson left House's place around midnight. He gathered up his dirty lake clothes and left House's dirty clothes behind in a smelly heap by the bathroom door. Then he called himself a cab.

"It's been annoying," he said with a wave.

"See you Monday," House waved from the sofa.

After Wilson was gone, House lingered awake for another hour. He flipped numbly between TV Land and HBO while nursing a third beer.

Finally, he swallowed two Vicodin and decided to call it quits.

As he switched off his bedside lamp, he took one last look at the silver ring on his finger and smiled, feeling the tiniest spark of childhood joy. It was like being Bilbo Baggins but without all the spiders and burglary, he thought, as he reached up and turned off the lamp.

A few hours later, House was roused from sleep by sharp pains in his stomach. He stumbled into the bathroom and dropped to his knees in front of the toilet just in time to eject the entire salmon meal--and then some--into the bowl.

Between spells of retching and diarrhea that lasted for the next two hours, House succumbed to sprawling on the bathroom floor, shivering and sweating and groaning in pain. He closed his eyes as the room spun and quickly diagnosed scombroid food poisoning.

"Fucking great," he mumbled.

He clawed his way back into the bedroom, located his discarded blue jeans, and pulled his cellphone from the pocket.

He returned to the bathroom as another wave of nausea rolled through him and eventually found himself slouched on the floor, resting his forehead against the cool vitreous china of the toilet bowl, cellphone held weakly to his ear as he let it ring and ring and ring.

"It's three in the morning, House," answered a sleepy-sounding Wilson. "You'd better be sick or dead."

"You were asleep," said House. "That means you aren't sick."

"What time is it?"

"I'm fine, thanks for asking."

"Oh. What's wrong?"

"If you're not sick, you're about to be."

"From the fish?"

"Guess they don't stock salmon for a reason," said House.

"Great." Wilson sighed. "Gastro?"

"Scombroid."

"Are you sure? Because I'm not sick."

"Pretty sure."

"You need me to come over?"

"You'll never get here in time," said House. "And I'll ignore any desperate phone calls you try to make when your only-slightly-healthier histidine system decides to crash and burn."

"You know, it may sound to you like I'm compelled only by abject terror, but that still counts as legitimate concern."

House tapped his finger against the toilet bowl, letting his new silver ring clink.

"Can you get yourself some water?" asked Wilson.

"Implying I was capable of moving."

"And you're not, I take it."

"I can't really _see_ very well. Because of the histamine. From the food poisoning. From the fish."

Another wave of burning nausea rolled through him, and House closed his eyes and groaned into the phone.

"I'm coming over," said Wilson.

"No, you're not."

"I'm getting dressed."

"It's not an emergency."

"Obviously it is if you felt the need to call me at three in the morning."

"I'd call you anyway just to annoy you. A real emergency would've been if I'd called you on a Sunday afternoon."

"I can be there in ten minutes," said Wilson.

"Bring your own toilet paper," warned House.

"Call me if you get worse--"

House hung up before Wilson could finish his sentence. He tossed his phone toward the bedroom and heard it land with a satisfying crack.

* * *

Wilson did not show up ten minutes later as promised.

In fact, he did not show up even two hours later, and House had finally given him up for dead as he crawled back to bed.

The next morning, House heard insistent knocking at his front door but knew it would be like moving mountains to do anything about it, so he didn't bother lifting his face from the pillow.

His body ached, his leg burned, his head throbbed, his stomach hurt. There was no way he was getting up without a fight.

I need zinc, he thought. Zinc and fluids.

"House? You okay in there?"

House heard the door unlock followed by footsteps as Wilson made his way to the bedroom.

"Still alive?"

House groaned into his pillow.

"It's Sunday," said Wilson. "Official day for emergencies, according to you."

House answered by rolling over and peering darkly at Wilson, who stood in the bedroom doorway looking bright and fresh and showered.

"You're not sick," said House. "But you didn't shave, either. Were you up all night worrying about me?"

Wilson went to the window and closed the curtains. House couldn't suppress his sigh of relief at the subsequent soothing darkness.

"You don't look as bad as I expected," said Wilson.

"You're only saying that so I won't drop out of the fashion show." House buried his face in his pillow again.

"I called Cuddy for you and got you the day off tomorrow. You can thank me when you lose the chess game."

Wilson wandered into the bathroom, and House heard water running a moment later.

"You hungry for something?" Wilson asked over the sound of running water. "I brought apple juice. I can make toast."

"Why aren't you sick?" asked House.

"I threw sand in the air."

House closed his eyes, then opened them again and stared at the ceiling. "Okay. We have to make a new rule about how obscure your obscure references are allowed to be."

Wilson returned to the bedroom armed with a damp washcloth and a glass of water. "Which part was obscure?"

"I was with you right up until the Bergman."

Wilson sat on the edge of the bed and began washing House's face and neck with the washcloth. House was startled by the untoward attention, but the cool cloth felt wonderful, so he didn't complain.

"It's an old wives' tale," shrugged Wilson. "You throw sand in the air to keep bees from swarming."

"Um?"

"And to keep from getting sick." Wilson sat the washcloth aside and picked up the glass of water. "Here, drink."

"Are you sure it works?" House eyed him suspiciously as he took the glass. "And that you're _Wilson_?"

Wilson smiled serenely, then took pity on House's weak grip and held the glass for him to help him drink.

"How can you _not_ have scombroid?" asked House, pushing the glass away after he'd taken a few sips of water.

Wilson rose and headed for the kitchen. "You want peanut butter on your toast?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"It's not a real question," called Wilson from the hallway. "Stop abusing punctuation marks."

House listened as Wilson rummaged around in the kitchen. With a groan, he pulled himself upright and let his feet dangle over the side of the bed. He was a little sore that Wilson hadn't gotten sick, but more than that, he was confused by the weird circumstances the universe had thrown at him.

"If you don't have scombroid, then _I_ don't have scombroid," he said aloud to no one in particular. "So what the hell do I have?"

"House?" Wilson called from the kitchen. "Peanut butter on the toast. Yea or nay?"

"Yea," said House loudly. He rubbed his face and let the silver ring massage his cheek.


	2. Chapter 2

Monday morning, House didn't need to take the day off promised to him by Cuddy. He strolled into Diagnostics feeling refreshed and only mildly lightheaded. The scombroid, or whatever it was, had fizzled away almost the moment Wilson had shown up at his apartment on Sunday with offerings of toast and apple juice.

"Hey," greeted Kutner, toting a mug of coffee and a case file as he took a seat at the conference table. "Heard you were sick yesterday. You feeling better?"

"Fine." House hung up his jacket and hooked his cane over the white board. "Where's Thirteen?"

"Downstairs doing her drug trials, I think."

"We heard you ate some bad fish," said Taub, who was sitting at the far end of the table.

"If that's an elaborately disgusting prostitution metaphor, then count me impressed," said House.

"We also heard that you caught the fish yourself," added Kutner. "After you went fishing."

"Yep." House made his way to the coffee pot. "Again with the metaphor."

"Yes to which? The fish or the fishing?"

"Whichever one gives me a more disarming reputation," said House.

He poured what was left of the morning's coffee into his mug, then turned and eyed the conference table and its mess of open files as he took a slow sip. After a moment, he noticed that Kutner and Taub had gone quiet and were staring at him.

"Somebody die?" House rifled through the files with one hand. "Somebody mysteriously and intriguingly suffering and _about_ to die?"

"Is it real silver?" asked Kutner.

"Can we see it?" asked Taub.

House immediately sat down his cup. "Dammit, Wilson."

"He didn't do any harm in telling us," said Taub.

"We sort of tricked him into it, anyway," said Kutner. "You shouldn't be too hard on him."

"You two couldn't trick a stripper into giving a lap dance," said House.

"Wilson was in kind of a strange mood, though," said Kutner. "You might want to talk to him."

"Yeah, I'll bet it was strange."

House made his way toward the door, snatching up his cane from where he'd hooked it over the white board.

Kutner shouted after him as he left Diagnostics, "The National Enquirer would pay money for a story like that!"

* * *

House was leaning against the reception desk in the free clinic when Cuddy found him.

"Are you waiting for Wilson?" she asked.

"Nope."

House clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he scanned the scene of sick people. Of course he was waiting for Wilson, because Wilson wasn't in his office, and since it was too early for lunch, this was only other place he could be.

"I know you didn't come here voluntarily," said Cuddy, still fishing.

"Forgot to recharge the batteries in my ankle bracelet."

"So either you're looking for someone--and the only two people in this hospital you ever look for are me or Wilson, and I was in my office the entire time, which of course you knew-- _or_ you're waiting for one of the clinic rooms to open up so you can take a nap."

"Oh, you and your smarty-pants-ness," cooed House. He stilled when he noticed a flicker of awareness in Cuddy's blue eyes. "He _told_ you."

"Let me look at it," she said, reaching for his hand.

House pulled his hand back. "Why? Don't believe magic until you see it with your own eyes? Bet you were the brat who called the birthday party magician out on his lame rabbit tricks."

"I don't believe anything until I see it with my own eyes," said Cuddy.

House relented and lay his hand flat on the counter so Cuddy could see the ring.

Her expression went from sassy to curious as she bent for a closer look. "You really found this in a fish?"

"Yep."

Cuddy took his hand in her own and turned it over, examining the ring from all angles, gently twisting his fingers.

"It's just a ring," said House. "It's not like Wilson went to Jared."

"He should have. God knows you could use a romantic kick in the ass."

A moment later, Wilson appeared from one of the clinic rooms in the wake of a sniffling flu patient. He approached the counter opposite the one where House and Cuddy were standing and began signing paperwork.

"Ogling time's over." House snatched his hand back from Cuddy's eager fingers. "Sidekick reprimanding duty calls."

He left Cuddy by the counter and made his way over to Wilson.

"Hey."

Wilson looked up. "What's up?"

"You know, one way to get arrested for _borrowing_ a boat is to actually go and tell the cops that you did it."

"That's good to know." Wilson turned for the elevators. "Next time I borrow a boat, I'll try and remember that."

"Mister Jim Penisbrain telling everyone at the hospital about our little expedition--"

"Oh, relax. I only told your team. And Cuddy. And possibly the night janitor. It was definitely less than five people."

They stepped into the elevator together. House made a point of giving Wilson very little personal space despite the fact that the carriage was empty.

"Everyone wants to look at my cool ring now," said House. "I feel like J. Lo."

"Definitely less than _ten_ people," Wilson corrected himself. "And you mean _my_ cool ring."

"My catch."

"Twenty people. At the most, twenty people. And I'm the one who got the fish in the boat. I gutted it. It's my ring."

"Didn't we already have this argument?"

"I did you the favor of playing along with your insanity in the first place."

"Totally not insanity. Well, maybe _-ish_."

"I should be the one wearing the ring," said Wilson.

"And you can have it back just as soon as I die or suffer a terrible accident in shop class."

The elevator doors slid open, and House followed Wilson into the corridor.

Wilson glanced back at him. "You're still following me, House."

"Just wanna be near my BFF Jimmy. See how often he opens his mouth. Use my cane as a gag if necessary."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "If that's the best you can do, then by all means, keep following me."

"Okay."

"Mind if I go on my rounds during?"

"You actually do rounds? Thought you were big time."

"I still have patients. It's my professional responsibility."

"You mean like your professional responsibilities also include being a nookie monger?"

"Seriously, House."

"Seriously, Wilson."

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all," House smiled benevolently. "Put on a good show. I'll keep up."

For the next forty minutes, House followed Wilson around the oncology wing, visiting vending machines, insulting orderlies, backwashing into the drinking fountains, and rolling his eyes at Wilson's pathetic, whining, coddled patients every chance he got.

He waited for Wilson to open his mouth about the ring they'd found, or at the very least complain about House's obnoxious behavior, but Wilson kept quiet. Didn't even flirt with the nurses, much to House's disappointment.

By the time they reached the last patient, House was chewing on a Vicodin and wondering for the love of God what had compelled him to follow Wilson in the first place. The man was absolutely boring as a doctor.

"Is she dying?" House peeked over Wilson's shoulder and eyed the woman in the hospital bed.

"Are you still here? Why are you so paranoid about that ring, anyway?"

"I'm not paranoid. How could you say such a thing?"

Wilson raised his eyebrows.

"Okay, a little paranoid," said House. "Maybe it's a magical ring. Did that thought ever cross your fuzzy little mind? Won't let me take it off. Demands I _keep it secret, keep it safe_." He nodded at the patient. "So is she dying?"

"Not today."

"Is she even sick?"

"Of course she's sick!" snapped Wilson. He immediately battened his voice down to a low whisper. "She has cancer."

"Wow, seriously? What are the odds of someone in the cancer ward catching cancer?"

"Doctor Wilson?"

A young female doctor approached wearing pink scrubs. House recognized her but couldn't remember her name and didn't feel like doing her the honor of learning it.

She handed Wilson a patient chart. Wilson took it and began signing the carbonless forms attached to it.

"This elixir has some pretty nasty side effects for someone her age," he said. "Go ahead and cut the dosage in half, take her down to three times a week, and call me if she experiences any muscle weakness."

"You got it," said the young doctor.

Wilson handed the clipboard back to her then turned and stepped from the room.

House followed.

"Haven't you gone away yet?" asked Wilson, glancing back.

"What did you just say?" asked House.

"When?"

"Just now."

"Just now when?"

"When you were talking to UCLA about Miss Mastectomy America back there."

"Uh... I gave instructions for my patient?"

"You said 'elixir.'"

Wilson smiled. "No, I didn't."

"Yes, you did."

"No, House. I didn't."

"If your name is really Paracelsus, now would be a good time to speak up."

"Can you let me finish my rounds?"

"Sure," said House. "What sort of cutting edge medical science are we going for? Some flesh-eating slug repellent? Maybe some lembas bread? I keep an everlasting gobstopper in my top right drawer--"

Wilson refused to answer and went to the vending machine for Skittles.

"This counts as part of your rounds, right?"

Wilson ignored him and took the elevator down the Surgery. House followed.

When they reached the dim corridor marking the operating rooms, they turned a corner and nearly collided with Chase, who'd wandered out of the men's restroom looking tired and stiff.

"You two lost?" asked Chase.

"He's lost," said Wilson, pointing at House. "But that shouldn't surprise you."

"Wilson thinks he's a sorcerer," said House.

"No, I don't."

"It's okay. Chase is a sorcerer, too. Show him your staff."

"Ignore him," said Wilson, snapping a pen from his pocket protector. "I need to schedule a surgery for one of my patients."

"No problem," said Chase.

* * *

By 11 o'clock, Wilson had retreated to his office to do some paperwork, and House found himself sitting behind his desk listening to Earth, Wind and Fire on his iPod while disassembling a Rubik's Cube with a screwdriver.

His team was in the next room discussing a diagnosis while House sort-of listened, smiling in amusement whenever a sentence got obliterated by a _shining star_ or a _boogie wonderland_.

Every so often, Thirteen would knock on the glass separating the two rooms to get his attention, but he resolutely ignored her.

Two things were bothering him that superseded the patient. The first was the Rubik's Cube lying in pieces on his desk.

The second was Wilson's untucked shirt.

When it had happened, House almost hadn't noticed. Wilson had been on his way to his office, and House had turned to go to his. Wilson had stopped and asked House if he wanted to have lunch at noon, and when House looked back to say yes, Wilson had casually untucked his shirt from his belt.

He'd done it the way a kid might do it after church. Like he couldn't stand it anymore. Like he was uncomfortable.

House hadn't believed his eyes.

"Having fun?" asked Foreman.

House looked up from his vivisection of plastic colored corners and axes and eyed Foreman over the tops of his reading glasses.

"Just thought you'd like to know we have a patient," said Foreman. "In case medicine still interested you at all."

"You notice anything strange about Wilson this morning?" asked House.

Foreman shrugged. "Did you?"

"You're supposed to tell me. That's why I asked. I'm pretty sure that's the way it works, anyway."

"My guess is, you've already noticed something strange about Wilson, and you just want an excuse to stalk him when you should be treating our patient."

House made a face. "I don't stalk Wilson. Wilson's boring."

Foreman raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Okay, except for... all those other times," said House.

Thirteen poked her head into the room. "Uh... we have a patient."

"You're right," said Foreman. He turned to glare expectantly at House. "We do."

"Oh, well in that case, let me get my who-gives-a-shit on," said House. He cleared his throat. "Please, Doctor Foreman. Do describe our drug addict's drug addict behavior."

"You still think drugs?"

"I don't think anything," said House. "Because I don't care."

"Should I tell him to come back tomorrow?" asked Thirteen. "Would that be easier?"

"Wilson's apparently more interesting," said Foreman.

"Erno Rubik is more interesting," said House. "Wilson's a canker sore by comparison. Irritating and totally unavoidable."

"What are you doing?" asked Thirteen. She'd noticed the the disassembled Cube on House's desk.

"Did you know--" House picked up his screwdriver and continued snapping corners off the center axis of the toy--"that this cube has about forty quintillion possible arrangements? Of course, now that I've disassembled it, that's increased to about five _hundred_ quintillion possible arrangements."

He put down his screwdriver and snapped off the last few pieces by hand, leaving only the fixed center pieces on their axes. He spread all the pieces out with a sweep of his hand.

"Nice work," said Foreman.

"Some pieces you just can't move," sighed House.

* * *

House plunked himself down at the corner table in the cafeteria and watched Wilson poke at his uneaten salad with a fork.

"You're not eating," said House. "Tea trolley all out of butterbeer and chocolate frogs?"

Wilson didn't look up.

"That was a hint," said House. "It means you're acting strange. I think that salmon did something to you."

"No, it didn't."

"It made _me_ puke my guts out," said House. "Scombroid doesn't pick and choose. Symptoms aren't subtle just because you're prettier."

"I don't have scombroid," said Wilson. "I don't have anything."

"You haven't tried to lecture me once all day," said House. "You didn't even flirt with that doctor up in Oncology, and she was hot. Hell, you didn't even flirt with Chase, and he's always hot."

Wilson gave him his best why-are-we-having-this-conversation look.

"That means you're distracted," said House. "And you untucked your shirt. Did you have sex in your office?"

Wilson didn't say anything.

"Did you have sex with _yourself_ in your office, and you're too embarrassed to tell me about it?"

"That wouldn't require me untucking my shirt," said Wilson calmly. "But no, since you asked."

"What about medication?" asked House.

"I'm not acting strange."

"Did you take a butt load of Tagamet you're not telling me about? Any _elixirs_ in there, Jimmy boy? I would know by your sperm count, so don't think you can hide it from me." House reached across the table and stole a tomato.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Not funny. And no. I already told you."

House chewed the tomato and stared at Wilson, studying him as he twitched self-consciously under the scrutiny.

Finally, Wilson set down his fork and leaned forward as another thought entirely unrelated to their current conversation forced its way into the spotlight. "Let me ask you something--"

"You don't care that I just stole your tomato?" asked House.

"Have you had any strange dreams lately?"

"What's the differential on indifference to tomato stealing?"

"Because I've been having some really, really vivid dreams," said Wilson.

House narrowed his eyes. "Like Dave Bowman Star-Child vivid or more Rene Laloux vivid?"

"I know you think I should have gotten sick, but scombroid can have delayed side effects."

"Not _that_ delayed," said House. "Or, you know, completely unrelated."

"Histamine reaction can't cause dreams."

House sat back, suddenly curious. "You getting headaches?"

"Why?"

"Acanthamoeba granulomatous encephalitis."

Wilson blinked. "...is the most rare infection on the planet and has nothing whatsoever to do with this conversation."

"It explains the indifference to tomato stealing."

"No, it doesn't."

"Explains the dreams."

"No, actually, it doesn't," said Wilson. He narrowed his eyes. "Wait a minute. Are you quizzing me?"

House shrugged. "It's just a question."

"Why would you even say encephalitis?"

"Should I have picked something more interesting? Scabies?"

"If... you didn't want to see how I'd react?"

"Do you know what encephalitis is?"

Wilson glared at him, then pushed back his chair to leave. "I'm not sick, House."

"If you know, then your reaction to my question doesn't matter."

"I'm not playing this game."

"MRSA," said House.

Wilson laughed. "Nice try. Scombroid, amoebas, _and_ MRSA. There, see? Enjoy the salad." He turned and headed out of the cafeteria.

"Don't go touching your patients, now," House called after him. "Wouldn't want you to get sued. Or have _accidental sex_."

Wilson gave him a dismissive wave before disappearing down the hall.

* * *

"Something's wrong with Wilson," said House.

He plunked himself down in the chair opposite Cuddy's desk.

Cuddy lowered her pen and looked up from her paperwork. Her expression was a mix of sympathy and exasperation, which House took as permission to continue.

"He lost his button."

"His what?"

"You know, his--" House pretended to poke his stomach. "His tee-hee button. The one that makes him laugh like the Pillsbury Dough Boy."

Cuddy stared at him.

"I stole a tomato from his salad," explained House.

"And?"

"And he didn't care."

"Oh my god, somebody call a doctor."

"This is serious."

"You always steal food from Wilson, and it's never serious."

"Yeah, but this was a tomato, and tomatoes mean business."

"Right. Of course." Cuddy resumed her paperwork.

"Something about his affect's gone haywire, and it's been bugging me all morning. He's annoyed more than usual."

"That surprises you?"

"I haven't done anything to warrant this level of annoyance," said House. "At least not that I can remember. Of course, I may have slashed his tires in my sleep last night and not been aware of it."

"Maybe he's just tired of your bullshit. It's not entirely impossible."

"No, it's something else. Something _not_ Wilson." House looked down at his cane and absently rubbed his thumb along the smooth, black aluminum.

"Have you tried talking to him?" asked Cuddy. "And by talking, I mean actually having a human conversation with him as opposed to the sarcastic, sexually unresolved boxing matches you two usually have?"

House said nothing. He was lost in thought, still staring down at his cane.

After a moment, he stood to leave.

Cuddy let him get halfway to the door before she spoke up. "House."

House turned.

"Talk to him. Maybe he's waiting for you to ask him what's wrong. Maybe he wants to see if you'll do something about it."

"You mean take an active interest in his well-being? Give him a shoulder to cry on?"

"All I'm saying is, if you're worried, then fix the problem."

"I'm not worried," said House. "You think I'd come to _you_ if I were genuinely worried?"

He turned for the door.

Cuddy sighed and went back to her paperwork.

* * *

Five hours later, after the sun had set and House had slunk home on his motorcycle without having talked to Wilson, Wilson burst into House's apartment.

"I can hear him," he announced.

House was post-bath, dressed for bed. He was eating Fritos while reading about nondegradative protein ubiquitylation in the latest issue of PNAS. The most he could manage in the way of expressing surprise at Wilson's unannounced visit was to turn the page and finish chewing.

Wilson didn't bother closing the door. He strode into the middle of the room and stood, slightly flushed, hands shaking as if he'd just witnessed a horrifying car accident up the street.

"I can hear him talking," he said again.

House took a sip of beer and waited for the punchline. He couldn't decide if he wanted to smack Wilson or play games with his head, so he compromised and ate more Fritos. At least Wilson was more animated now than he had been all day.

"I can hear him," said Wilson again.

"Yeah, I got that part."

"It," Wilson clarified. "I can hear _it_."

"Pennywise?"

"I'm not sick, House, but something's wrong. I can hear him talking to me. He shows up in my dreams, when I'm sitting at my desk trying to finish my paperwork. He says 'he killed her.' I don't know who 'he' and 'her' are, but I don't know what to do."

Wilson exhaled as if he'd been dying to get that information off his chest all day. He went to the door and pushed it shut. Then he dumped his keys on the coffee table and sat down on the sofa with his head in his hands.

"Did he give you his name?" House ate another Frito.

"This isn't a joke."

"Of course not. Wouldn't dare think it."

"This isn't a breakdown, either. I'm not sick. Well, I'm sick, but I mean, I'm lucid."

"Clear as a bell," nodded House. He held out the bag. "Chip?"

Wilson took a few greasy chips and started munching.

"Food poisoning can manifest in different ways," said House as they ate Fritos together. "Hallucinations--"

"This isn't a hallucination," said Wilson, mouth full of corn chips. "I can hear him talking."

"And that would be a hallucination. Unless I failed a pop quiz in medical school at some point."

"It's as if he's in my head looking out, seeing what I see, telling me all this stuff."

"Like what stuff?"

"Like the fact that you eat Tang by the spoonful. Like the fact that you urinated in your bathtub just before draining it tonight. Like the fact that you study your own bowel--"

"Yeah, yeah," said House, suddenly no longer amused. He closed the bag of corn chips noisily and dumped it on the coffee table. Then he went into the kitchen for another beer, grabbing one for Wilson as well.

Wilson accepted the offered beer but sipped carefully as if he were afraid the liquid might do damage. House made a mental note of that as he sat next to him on the sofa.

For a while, neither man said anything.

Then they both spoke at once--

"What if it really is encephalitis?"

"Maybe you have an unborn twin."

Wilson looked at House. "What?"

"You know, like Stephen King. The sparrows are flying again."

"I don't have a twin."

"You sure about that?" House sipped his beer.

"Well, not a hundred percent sure, but even if I had a twin, it would be entirely unrelated to this conversation, because _it's inside my head_."

"Exactly. Unborn twin. Extra brain matter gets absorbed by the body, fires off signals. You think you're hearing voices, when really it's just another person's sensory system crossing wires with yours."

Wilson shook his head. "I don't think so."

"Could be chimerism," said House.

"Not possible."

"Sure it is. You went to medical school. Imagine what would happen if it could speak. It'd be like Bruce Campbell."

House took another swig of beer. He watched Wilson's knee bounce anxiously.

"Schedule an MRI for tomorrow," said House, changing tactics. "We'll see if anything shows up."

Wilson looked at him hopefully. "Yeah?"

"Either that, or we'll call you a priest. Not that an exorcism would actually do you any good, you crazy Jew."

He clinked his bottle to Wilson's and took another sip of beer.

* * *

The next day, Wilson didn't show up for his MRI, so House left the hospital, ignoring the plight of his latest patient, and drove over to Wilson's apartment. He expected to find the man puking his guts out courtesy of the long-awaited scombroid.

Wilson didn't answer his door, so House unlocked it with his key and barged inside.

"Wilson? You grow a twin yet?"

House looked around. The bathroom door at the end of the hall was closed, and water was running. House assumed Wilson was in the shower, so he decided to wait for him and wandered into the kitchen, hoping to find a snack he could steal. Preferably something that would make a mess on Wilson's floor.

When he flicked on the kitchen light, he saw that Wilson had already done the job.

"Holy crap, Wilson."

It looked like a bomb had exploded. There was muck everywhere--flour, water, sugar, noodles, spaghetti sauce, spilled spices, little puddles of unidentifiable liquid on the floor and countertops. Raw meat, fruit peel, corn flakes, bits of grass, even dirt. The refrigerator door was hanging open, and half a dozen bottles were tipped and dripping their contents onto the tiles.

In the middle of the mess sat a giant ceramic bowl filled to the brim with a mint-colored glop that House could only assume was the combined ingredients of every single food item Wilson owned.

After taking a moment to get over his initial surprise, House reached in his pocket for his cellphone and called Cuddy.

She answered with an annoyed sigh. "I'm busy, House. This had better be important."

"What's the differential, do you suppose, on playing chef?"

"What are you talking about?"

House made his way across the slimey floor, gripping the edges of countertops to keep from slipping. He leaned over to sniff at the bowl of green glop, expecting to recoil in olfactory horror, but the stuff didn't actually smell bad. Like mint.

"I'm standing in Wilson's kitchen staring at a giant vat of... well, everything."

"And is Wilson there with you?" Cuddy sounded annoyed, trying to glean a picture from House's impossibly roundabout clues.

"Not really," said House.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think Wilson's sick. He's been in the bathroom since I got here." House peeked around the corner at the bathroom door again. He could still hear water running.

"So give him a Band-aid," said Cuddy.

"I don't think he knows I'm here."

"Did you sneak into his apartment? Wait, of course you did."

"You weren't there to witness the tomato stealing."

"So knock on the bathroom door, House. Ask him if he's okay."

"Don't have to," said House, as the water shut off, the door opened, and a Wilson-sized shadow emerged.

House closed his phone with a snap, cutting off Cuddy, and tucked it in his pocket as Wilson arrived in the kitchen.

"What's up?" greeted House.

Wilson said nothing at first, which gave House a moment to size him up. He looked strangely disheveled. He was barefoot, his hair was uncombed, and his clothes were rumpled.

"I didn't hear you come in," said Wilson, voice sounding flat.

House thought _alexithymia_ and _schizophrenia_ and _dissociative fugue_ but decided he needed more information first.

"You still hearing voices?"

"It's just the one voice." Wilson's eyes were half-lidded and strangely dark as if he'd been drugged, but his movements seemed sure and determined. "When did you get here?"

"That depends," said House. "When did you decide to become Last Chef Standing?"

Wilson glanced over at the bowl full of goop. "I'm making something. You wouldn't understand."

House stilled. _That_ kind of talk definitely didn't suit Wilson.

"What were you doing in the bathroom?" he asked.

"I was washing up," shrugged Wilson.

House looked down at Wilson's hands. They were dry. All of Wilson was dry, in fact.

Wilson took a step closer to House and mumbled something House couldn't understand.

"What did you say?" asked House.

"I don't know." Wilson reached up slowly and touched House's shoulder. House tilted his head back as his personal bubble was invaded. He couldn't focus on Wilson's eyes; Wilson was too close.

"I think you just spoke Irish, which is weird because you're not--" House took a step back and bumped against the wall-- "Irish."

"You think too much," said Wilson in a dreamy, distant voice. He brought his other hand to House's shoulder. His fingers brushed House's collar delicately.

"You missed your MRI today," said House. "Fish sending you messages again?"

Wilson moved in, eyelids flickering, and House swore he was about to kiss him. He pushed himself abruptly away from the wall--and away from Wilson--and stumbled into the living room.

Wilson followed, reaching. "House--"

"Crazy times is done now," said House. "No more Wilson/House action. Need brain back."

Wilson grasped at his shirt.

"I said get off!" House snatched his arm back and shoved Wilson away from him.

"What's wrong with you?" asked Wilson.

"What's wrong with _you_? Swallow a few choice morsels from the rainbow section of the pharmacy?" House narrowed his eyes as he suddenly caught the strange scent in the air. "Are you wearing perfume?"

Wilson grinned, and it made his face look positively Puckish. "Don't be ridiculous," he said.

"You smell like flowers." House sniffed again. "Orchids. What the hell, Wilson?"

"It's nothing," said Wilson. He crept closer, and House raised his hands to push him away again even as he eyed the door to escape.

Wilson beat him to it; he lunged at House, and House stumbled back in surprise, dropping his cane. It clattered to the floor the same time he did, and he reached for it blindly, but Wilson kicked it before he could get to it. The cane skidded across the room.

House scooted back and attempted to get his feet beneath him. He found the wall with his hands and pulled himself up against it, thinking he could use it for leverage, grasping the corners, but Wilson grabbed House's arm before he could lift himself.

House hissed in pain as Wilson twisted his arm. He attempted to kick Wilson in the shin, but Wilson dodged him, then reared back and belted House sharply across the mouth with his fist.

House hit the floor with a stunned gasp, ears ringing, mouth stinging, vision wavering.

Wilson stared down at him, shoulders rising and falling with each angry, excited breath. House touched the back of his hand to his lip and saw blood. His jaw throbbed. He thought Wilson might say something, but Wilson abruptly moved away.

House craned his neck despite the dizzying pain from Wilson's left hook and watched as Wilson picked up his cane. He turned it in his hands until he was holding it like a weapon. Then he came back.

"Wilson, what are you doing?"

Wilson approached, an alien look in his dark eyes, wild and possessed and yet utterly calm.

House scooted backward into the hall. He looked over his shoulder for something--anything--to help him. Help him stand, help him fight off whoever this was attacking him since it obviously wasn't Wilson. There were no objects within reach, no shoes or books to throw. Damn Wilson and his damn tidy apartment.

Wilson loomed over House with the cane. He raised it in the air--

House lifted his foot and kicked him squarely in the groin. Wilson dropped the cane instantly, and House caught it before it hit the floor as Wilson cried out in surprised pain and doubled over, stumbling to the floor with his hands between his legs. He opened his mouth in a silent sob, face to the floor, then exhaled a shuddering breath. He turned and, blinking, focused on House.

"House... help me..." he whimpered. His expression flashed anguish, suddenly human and familiar, then just as suddenly reverted back to cold and distant, mask-like.

House managed to sit upright. He used his cane and pulled himself the rest of the way to his feet. He tried to step over Wilson, determined to leave the apartment, but Wilson reached for his ankle and snatched at his shoelaces in an attempt to trip him up.

Once again, House lost his cane, stumbling and slapping his hands against the wall to keep from hitting the floor. Wilson's palms squeaked on polished wood as he slapped them down, turned onto his belly and reached for the cane, crawling like a rabid animal.

"Wilson, stop it!"

House went the other way, toward the bathroom. Wilson followed, half-crawling half-limping along on the floor.

House backed into the bathroom. He slammed the bathroom door, and locked it seconds before Wilson caught up to him. He stood, hand on the door, breathing heavily, and listened.

He jumped when Wilson banged loudly on the door, first with the cane and then with his fists and feet, punching and kicking. House braced his body against the door, wincing as the sharp knocks vibrated into his thigh.

"Knock it off!" House bellowed through the door. "Crazy moron."

It was absurd. Wilson wasn't punching or kicking hard enough to do damage or even break the door in. What the hell was going through his head?

"Fine!" yelled House. "Ruin your dead girlfriend's door, see if I care!"

House reached into his pocket for his cellphone and quickly dialed Cuddy's number.

"Is Wilson okay?" asked Cuddy, picking up from where their previous conversation had left off.

"Wilson's sick," said House over the banging. "I don't think a Band-Aid's going to fix it."

"What's that noise?"

House didn't answer. Something had caught his attention in the bathroom. He turned.

"House?" Cuddy lingered on the other end.

House snapped his phone shut. The bathtub and sink basin were both filled to the brim with water. Lying at the bottom of each was a heap of surgical tools--hemostats and scalpels in the sink and larger tools lying in tub--retractors, a speculum, a trocar.

Sitting on the edge of the tub was a tall, dark canister of Morton Salt. House picked it up and shook it. It was empty.

"Wilson. What the hell?"

The pounding at the door stopped, and House heard footsteps retreating. He went over to the door, put his ear to the wood, and listened.

"You still out there?"

He didn't get an answer. A second later, he heard the front door to the apartment open and slam.

House turned the lock and let himself out of the bathroom. He peeked around the door warily and peered down the dark, empty hallway. The apartment was quiet.

Palming the walls and being careful not the stumble in the shadows, House made his way toward the living room. He found his cane on the way, lying on the floor by the kitchen doorway, and picked it up. He arrived in the living room just in time to see Wilson's Volvo pulling erratically away from the curb outside.

"Dammit," muttered House. He hurried to the door.

* * *

House pulled into the Princeton boathouse parking lot and turned off his headlights to avoid drawing the attention of campus security. He spotted Wilson's Volvo immediately; it was the only other car in the gravel lot, and Wilson had done a decidedly less than stellar job of parking it halfway through a gigantic yellow forsythia. The driver's side door was hanging open, littered in yellow petals, and the interior light was on.

House climbed out of his car and made his way over to the Volvo. He reached in and took Wilson's keys from the ignition, pocketed them, then gently closed the door. He took a quick look around the moonlit parking lot to make sure no one had seen him before making his way across the lot toward the trees. He could see Lake Carnegie flickering in the distance, its calm surface mirroring silver light.

He emerged from the trees and slowed. Wilson was standing by the same dock House had moored the boat to on Saturday.

"The Sibyl act was very charming," said House to announce his presence.

Wilson glanced over his shoulder. He didn't look surprised or upset to see House, and House took that as permission to approach.

"But the boxing lessons your fifth personality is obviously taking are for shit." House rubbed his sore jaw.

"Leave me alone," said Wilson quietly.

House stopped for half a second, then kept approaching. A few more steps, and he was standing next to Wilson, staring down the length of the dock with him in the moonlight.

"This is romantic," said House. "Are we waiting for Titanic?"

Wilson said nothing. He looked calm now, but there was an unnerving distance in his eyes House didn't like--empty and weary, one-faceted, much like House himself felt by the end of the day when dead muscle tissue and a Vicodin plateau had turned his limbs into a marionette's.

"I have to go," said Wilson.

"Go... where?"

Wilson nodded toward the lake, and almost immediately after nodding, he began walking forward.

House caught him by the sleeve. "Wilson--"

"You can't go with me," said Wilson simply. He reached up and gently twisted House's fingers from his arm.

House watched as Wilson walked slowly down the length of the dock. He couldn't quite believe what he was seeing until Wilson got to the end of the dock and peered down at the water.

The second he realized what Wilson intended, House dropped his cane, ignored the protests in his bad thigh, and legged it down the dock.

"Hey!" House shouted. He voice echoed across the lake.

Wilson looked back. The wind tousled his hair, and that combined with the eerie moonlight reflecting off the water onto the underside of his face made him look wraith-like and strange.

As he ran-limped down the dock, foot dragging, House became slowly aware that the water around him had begun to glow. At first, he thought it was the moonlight, a cloud moving out of the way, perhaps even headlights from a passing car on the bridge. Nothing out of the ordinary--and illusion of nighttime, his eyes playing tricks on him.

He looked down at his feet and realized it was something more. He saw pale, blue-green light shimmering up through the gaps between the wooden planks.

The water was glowing. _Glowing_.

"What--?" House stopped.

A thin, fast-moving mist slipped across the dock like a whisper, cloaking House's feet. He could smell flowers and spices and hear a strange, metallic sound. Like... laughter. No, that wasn't it. Something...

Suddenly, House cried out as he felt a sharp, sickening blow to the back of his head. His neck went numb, and his vision blurred, and he stumbled to the planks of the dock with a grunt. He heard sloshing water and the echoing footsteps. He tasted blood in his mouth from hitting his face and saw the wavering blue-green light glowing up through the cracks. He smelled flowers and heard more laughter. And then he blacked out.

* * *

"You okay?" the girl asked.

House squinted against the bright, morning sunlight. He lifted a hand to spare his eyes and tried to focus on the face looming over him. Tanned, young, and very pretty. Blonde hair framed blue eyes and soft, full lips.

For a full five seconds, he thought he'd either died and gone to heaven or fallen through a hole in the universe into a magical other-dimension. Then he saw that the girl was wearing iPod ear buds around her neck, and reality snapped back like a stinging rubberband.

"What happened?" asked House.

Another face appeared, equally as pretty.

"Think we should call an ambulance?" the second girl asked. She had brown hair and was wearing a gray and orange tank top.

"I don't know," said the blonde girl. "I think he fell. Maybe he was drunk."

There was laughter, and suddenly House realized he was surrounded by girls. Ten of them, at least, and they were all wearing gray and orange tank tops and matching shorts.

He sat up, prompting a chorus of "whoa" and "easy" from his gorgeous, unexpected audience.

"Looks like you took a pretty rough tumble," said a girl.

"You're lucky you didn't end up in the water," said another girl.

"Is your head okay? You were bleeding," said yet another girl.

House touched the back of his head where his unseen attacker had clocked him the night before. He looked at his fingers and saw flecks of dried blood. There was more dried blood on his upper lip.

"Fine," he said.

He blinked away his blurred vision and focused on the dozen pairs of sleek, tanned, Nike-footed legs all around him. He looked to the side and saw sunlight flickering on the water over the edge of the dock. The blue-green light was gone, and so was the mist. He'd been lying on the dock the whole night, he realized, and quickly assessed himself. He was relieved that there was no vomit--or worse, urine--staining his clothes, but he had no idea how long he'd been unconscious or what had happened to Wilson.

"Are these your clothes?" one of the girls asked, presenting House with a bundle.

"We found your cane, too," said another girl. "Are you sure you're not hurt? The hospital's right over there. We can call."

House recognized the clothes as Wilson's. He snatched them from the girl's hands and tucked them under his arm. A quick glance at the lake told him Wilson was not around, and apparently he hadn't been around recently, or the girls would have noticed, clever things that they obviously were.

"I work there," he said. "I'm a doctor. I think I was mugged."

"You want us to call the cops?"

"Don't worry about it," said House.

"Maybe we should call the cops, anyway," said one of the girls.

Enough was enough. House took his cane and hauled himself upright. The girls helped him, gripping his arms. They were strong, and House guessed the matching tank tops meant he'd been rescued by the women's lightweight crew of the Princeton Rowing Team.

House knew then this wasn't a dream, as much as he wished otherwise. He could smell deodorant and shampoo and cherry blossom body wash and sunscreen--and Wilson's cologne and after-shave in the clothes he was holding. Too many scents to be a dream. Beyond, the Boathouse was bustling quietly as other teams assembled their boats. A few peopled were gathered along the shore, watching the spectacle on the dock as if House were a stray cat that had been hit by a passing car.

House left the girls, ignoring their concerned questions and bemused and expensive smiles, sore in the knowledge that their comfort instincts would fizzle the second he asked for the massage he desperately wanted to ask for. Instead, he found his Vicodin in his pocket, swallowed three pills, and made his way off the dock.

* * *

He found his car right where he'd left it.

Wilson's Volvo was there, too, but no longer parked in a forsythia. Instead, it was hitched to a tow truck, and the driver was just finishing securing the hitch.

"Would've taken yours, too," he said in greeting, smacking on Juicy Fruit gum that House could smell. "If you hadn't come back in fifteen minutes."

"Gee, thanks," grumbled House.

"You know the fella who owns this car?" asked the tow truck driver.

"Nope," said House. He slid in behind his steering wheel, closed the door, and took a steadying breath. He saw his cellphone lying on the passenger seat and grabbed it and quickly dialed Wilson's number.

There was no answer, so House tried Wilson's home number. There was no answer there, either, so House tried his office number.

No answer. House got his voice mail.

House gave up and tossed the phone aside. Wilson obviously wasn't in any place he was supposed to be. House didn't want to contemplate the possibility that he'd jumped in the lake and drowned, so he started his car.

"Dammit, Wilson," he muttered, and peeled out of the parking lot.

* * *

House hissed as Cuddy applied the cold compress to the back of his neck. He reached up and held it in place while she opened a disinfectant packet. They were in her office--House sitting on the sofa, half turned, Cuddy sitting beside him, bandages and disinfectant scattered on the coffee table.

"Maybe he'd been drinking," said Cuddy.

"You didn't see his apartment," said House. "Wilson doesn't get creative when he drinks. He falls down."

Cuddy pushed the compress out of the way and cleaned the small gash on the back of House's head with the stinging disinfectant. House hissed again in pain.

"Did you get a look at who did this?" asked Cuddy.

"I didn't even hear him," said House.

"So how do you know it's a him?"

"Because girls are weak. Also short."

"I think I could take you out with my umbrella if I wanted to," said Cuddy. She swabbed the gash with another packet of wipes, and House hissed again.

"Stop being a baby," scolded Cuddy, the tone of her voice suggesting she wasn't buying House's pouting for a second. "You deserve it."

"How do you figure?" House tried to turn, but Cuddy grasped both sides of his head and forced him to face away from her.

"Hold still," she ordered. "I said talk to Wilson, remember? It's your fault he's missing."

"He's not missing. He's just... hiding."

"Can you blame him? _Hold still_." Cuddy straightened his head again.

"Wilson can be a mean bastard when he wants to screw with someone," said House, wincing through Cuddy's nursing. "I wouldn't put an elaborate hoax past him, and I certainly wouldn't put it past you to be in on it--except that you suck at lying. Which means he either set this up on his own, or he's really missing."

"Then you should be responsible and call the cops."

Cuddy finished cleaning and took House's hand holding the ice pack and replaced it against the lump that had formed on the back of his skull.

"What if he was kidnapped?" wondered House.

Cuddy sighed, exasperated. "Then _call the cops_."

There was a knock at the door, and both House and Cuddy turned in time to see Foreman poke his head in. He was about to address Cuddy, but then he saw House and the compress he was holding, and his eyes flashed mild concern. "Are you okay?"

"We rolled off her desk having sex," said House. "I landed first."

"Shut up," said Cuddy. She began clearing the mess off the coffee table.

"What's up?" asked House.

"Patient's MRI came back clean," said Foreman. "No abnormalities."

"What if he's on drugs?" asked House.

"The patient? I thought we already decided--"

"No. Wilson."

Foreman laughed, but at Cuddy's hard look, he quickly sobered. "Oh. You're being serious?"

"Wilson wouldn't take something," said Cuddy. "Would he?"

"What if he didn't know he was taking it?" asked House.

"You think the guy who hit you was a dealer?" asked Cuddy. "Wilson's dealer?"

"Is Wilson okay?" asked Foreman, glancing between House and Cuddy.

House grabbed his cane and threw the cold compress on the sofa. He headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Cuddy.

"The library," said House.


	3. Chapter 3

"Tox screen came back negative," said Thirteen.

She stood just inside the door to House's office and brushed an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

The office was dim. The blinds were open against a wall of glittering rain-dotted nighttime. House's desk lamp was the only light.

House himself was sitting at his desk. He was surrounded by books, reading. With the warm glow from the lamp, he looked like a polymath from a Romantic painting. All he needed was a cravat and some armillary spheres in the background, thought Thirteen.

She waited for him to answer, but when he failed to acknowledge her presence, she continued reciting the results of the test as she approached his desk.

"Patient's clean, which means it can't be drugs, so if you have another theory--"

"How do you feel about divining rods?" asked House, finally looking up from his book. His reading glasses flickered, catching the reflection of the lamp-lit pages in front of him.

"For the patient?"

"You're right. Too unpredictable." House looked back down at the book he'd been reading and turned a few pages.

"You didn't hear anything I just said, did you?"

"No, but I wasn't really listening." House looked up again and squinted at her. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

Thirteen held up the paper in her hand. "Tox screen. Negative."

House nodded and glanced around his cluttered desk. "Just... find a place for it."

"What are you doing?"

House flipped through more pages. "Looking for something I lost."

Thirteen approached, curious. She stepped around the side of the desk and glanced over House's shoulder at the book he was reading. The other books on his desk were all from the university library. Some of them were old, their tiny gilded titles faded beyond legibility.

"You don't need a divining rod for that," she said. "Unless you've lost an underground lake."

She swore he smiled at that.

"More like an oncologist," he said.

His voice sounded soft, almost rueful. Thirteen wondered if he'd had another fight with Wilson.

"Are you okay, House?"

"Fine."

"Well, I wouldn't trust Gardner to find anything for you." She pointed at the book House was currently reading. "He drew on Murray's theories, and she doesn't have the greatest reputation."

House looked up, surprised. "Since when are you an expert Wiccan?"

"Since I was a junior in high school and obsessed with The Craft."

"Still practicing?" asked House.

"Nope. Grew out of it and moved on to Nine Inch Nails. Are we really going to talk about this now? Our patient--"

"Do you still sleep with a knife under your pillow and store your pubic hair in baby food jars? Unless you were a hedgewitch, then it would be a little more Fraggle Rock."

"It's called an athame, not a knife. And _not Wiccan anymore_ , in case you didn't hear the part where I just said it." She placed the test results on top of a stack of books and turned to leave. "Try throwing some flowers."

"Huh?"

She turned in the doorway. "Toss three flowers in the air. Go in the direction the middle one lands."

"What good will that do?"

"You said you were looking for something you lost. That might be one way to find it."

She left, and House frowned after her, absorbing the odd advice.

* * *

House opened Wilson's office door.

He stood standing in the doorway for a moment, taking in the sight of the eerily dim and quiet room.

Not that Wilson's office was ever bright and noisy, but after having seen what had become of Wilson--or, rather, what had become of what House was slowly convincing himself had been a _possessed_ Wilson--he was not at all comforted by the sight of the empty swivel chair sitting behind the big, oak desk.

House closed the office door behind him and started with the nearest object within reach. Maybe there were clues, he thought. The mess in Wilson's apartment had been one big, huge clue, of course, but maybe there were more.

"Okay, Mr. Pump. Let's see what you were hiding."

House searched Wilson's lab coat pockets, turning them inside out, but he didn't find anything interesting except for loose change and a receipt from the cafeteria.

He snapped Wilson's pocket protector free and dropped it onto the desk, spilling the pens. He tossed the lab coat over Wilson's chair then proceeded to root through Wilson's desk, bookcases, cabinets, leather jacket, and finally his trash.

He found nothing.

House turned a useless circle in the middle of the room when he realized he had nowhere else to look. Maybe Wilson had secret compartments hidden in his office, he thought. After all, there was potentially a certain element of magic to this, wasn't there? In fact, maybe Wilson had a secret alchemy lab under the hospital where he'd spent nights conjuring up his golem-like creations and sending them out to do his bidding. It would certainly explain all the trouble he'd had with relationships over the years.

House sighed and returned Wilson's lab coat to its hook. Wilson obviously wasn't here, and there were no immediate clues to lead him to where Wilson _really_ was, so there was no point in lingering.

House was about to leave, but he stopped when he noticed the flowers on Wilson's desk.

It was a small bouquet, fragrant and tidy, loaded with rich blue violets and purple-yellow pansies. Probably sent by a recovered breast cancer patient or some such, thought House.

He studied it for a moment, then he reached down and plucked three flowers from its arrangement.

Three flowers, Thirteen had said.

* * *

It was certainly one of the more ridiculous things he'd ever done.

Well, except for that time he'd plunged the knife in the wall socket.

Or that time he'd overdosed on Vicodin.

But this was definitely in the top five.

House stood next to Chris Taub's Porsche in the rear hospital parking lot--it was prettiest car in the lot, and if any attractive females happened to walk by and assume it belonged to House, then he was perfectly okay with that.

With an underhanded toss, he sent the three flowers in his hand sailing into the grass. They flew haphazardly and landed less than five feet away.

Still, they managed to land in something resembling a line, with one flower pointing toward the hospital, one flower pointing in the direction of the Millstone river, and the third flower pointing back towards House's shoe.

House drew a line with his eyes leading from the middle flower across the lawn, readied his cane in his grip, and started toward the river.

It was certainly one of the more ridiculous things he'd ever done.

* * *

He made it all the way to the water before he stopped, looked down at his shoes, and wondered what the hell he was doing.

There was nothing here, of course.

House glanced back toward the parking lot, now barely visible, just to make sure he'd walked a straight line. He felt hopelessly foolish and wondered what kind of stupidity had driven him to listen to Thirteen in the first place. Throwing flowers? Seriously? He would've had better luck with a metal detector and a handful of broken glass.

House sighed and kicked at the pebbles on the shore. They sloshed into the water and disappeared.

He strolled around the shore, scraping at rocks with his cane and poking holes in the mud as he turned the Missing Wilson Mystery over in his brain.

He wandered up to the trees that lined the shore of the lake. He'd intended to sit in the grass and think, but the fat oak trees skirting the bank caught his attention. Their roots were snake-line and enormous, jutting out of the bank where the ground had eroded away. One of the trees was twice the size of the others.

House froze as something caught his eye.

Poking out from between two roots at the base of the biggest oak was a human hand.

House knelt for a better look. Everything was a mess of mud and roots and grass, hastily heaped as if shoveled there by a careless hand beneath the overhanging bulk of the tree trunk. Every so often, a wave of lake water managed to sweep away a bit of it, smoothing out the mud as more mud oozed down to replace it.

But there it was. Four fingers and a thumb. Pale and masculine, flecked in wet mud. Undeniably human.

A queer sense of dread washed over House as rain began to fall.

He thought of going back to the hospital for help, then wanted to laugh at himself as he imagined the instructions he would have to give. _I found a human hand buried under a tree, and I think it's my missing friend. Could you please send a gurney?_

Bearing the rain that went from merely falling to pouring within a matter of seconds, House knelt and started scraping away the mud around the obtruding hand. He found the arm it was attached to soon enough, followed quickly by a shoulder. Feeling his way carefully along the mud, he was able to draw an outline and soon located an ear, a hip, and a knee. The rain helped, washing what House managed to expose and clearing away more mud as he continued to dig under the roots of the bulky oak tree around the delicate flesh.

He wasn't surprised when he found a face marked by dark albeit mud-caked eyebrows. He quickly scraped lower, being careful not to scratch, and located a throat, then a pulse.

Wilson was alive.

House exhaled a shaky breath as the reality of the otherwise impossible situation began to sink in. Wincing through the dirt and mud and rain and the incredible, almost painful absurdity of the task before him, House dragged Wilson's naked, mud-slathered, unconscious body out from under the tree, free of the tangle of python-like roots and scratching weeds.

The pouring rain washed them both clean as House lay Wilson's cold body on the wet grass and checked his vitals. Slow breathing, low blood pressure, but a rapid pulse. That was troubling, but House wasn't as concerned as he knew he ought to have been considering the infinitely greater weirdness of finding his best friend stuffed naked beneath a tree.

"Wilson?" House smacked Wilson's mud-stained cheek to wake him.

Wilson started, blinked in the rain, then opened his dark eyes.

"House?" He tried to focus but couldn't quite manage it. A shiver ran through him, and he brought his arms to his chest, attempting to roll onto his side. "F-f-freezing," he stuttered.

House peeled out of his jacket and draped it around Wilson's chest and shoulders.

"I'll get you out of here," said House. He sat in the mud, exhausted, and fished in his pocket for a Vicodin. "Just as soon as pigs fly."

* * *

Thirteen arrived at House's apartment twenty minutes after he called her.

He'd managed, by whatever miracle, to haul Wilson back to his apartment after digging him out from under the tree. Wilson was damn heavy, but House derived a certain joy in dragging him naked across the muddy ground in the pouring rain, wishing only that he'd brought a bigger jacket to tie under Wilson's ass to make the dragging easier. He was sure he'd broken a few laws in the process--driving across the hospital lawn, speeding, allowing Wilson to expose himself in public--and he was equally sure there wasn't enough Vicodin on the planet to ease the muscle pain that resulted from carrying out the absurd task, but at least Wilson was safe, and no one would be asking questions unless House wanted them to.

He'd hosed Wilson down in his bathtub, confirmed his health was, for the most part, sound--if a little worrisome, especially considering the circumstances--and had dressed him in a pair of his pajamas before calling the only person he could think who might be able to help.

House watched as Thirteen closed the door, toed out of her clogs, and turned to greet him.

"I brought everything I could find, but it's not much. I got rid of most--"

She stopped, backpack halfway to House's waiting lap, when she noticed Wilson sitting on the sofa.

"House, what's wrong with Wilson?"

House ignored the question and nodded at Thirteen's bag. "What'd you bring?"

She dropped the bag in his lap. House unzipped it and started rooting around. The first item he pulled out was an ornate knife, which sponsored a suspiciously raised eyebrow in Thirteen's direction.

"Athame," said Thirteen. She moved around the coffee table, eyes fixed on Wilson, and recited the rest of the bag's contents in a bored voice. "Also a kerfan, wand, candles, lodestone, mistletoe, yarrow, scrying bowl, altar cloth. And some Magic cards from Kutner and a copy of _The Silmarillion_ because you weren't specific."

"Cool," said House.

After another moment of rooting around, House pulled out a small sachet of dried herbs and gave Thirteen a second suspicious look.

"Galangal," she said. "And pau d'arco. And some pennyroyal, rose hips and flax seed, but I have no idea how old they are. House, is Wilson okay?"

She perched on the end of the couch and studied Wilson with medically appraising eyes. Wilson hadn't budged since she'd arrived, and his expression looked waxen, his face slightly flushed.

"You know an awful lot about potions," said House.

"Potions are make-believe. This is reality. And I _used_ to be Wiccan, but not anymore, remember?" She leaned in and studied Wilson's pupils; he barely flinched when she brought her hands to his face. "Maybe we should stop playing Herbology 101 and take Wilson to the hospital."

"He's fine. He's just thinking."

"He looks catatonic. You called me, House. You said something was wrong--"

"Is this pau d'arco from the tree bark?" House held up another tiny sachet.

"Probably. Why?"

"Taheebo," said House, dropping the backpack on the floor by his feet but hanging onto the sachet. He found his cane with his free hand and hoisted himself upright. "Boil it up, makes a kind of tea. Mostly toxic, but an awesome expectorant. Hey, Wilson, feel like a cuppa?"

"You just said it was toxic."

"We mix it with the dried galangal, and he'll burp up a live hobgoblin. Just watch, it'll be great."

House went into the kitchen and found his tea kettle and filled it under the sink. He glanced into the living room and saw Thirteen checking Wilson's pulse and then frowning when Wilson didn't acknowledge her touch.

"His pulse is racing," she announced loudly over the sound of running water.

"He was kidnapped by fairies," said House. He returned to the living room. "Yours would be, too."

"We should call an ambulance."

"You've brought all the stuff. Can't you just cast a spell on him to fix him?"

"Yeah, if I were in Gryffindor and my wand wasn't made of plastic."

"Pssh. You'd be in Ravenclaw."

"And I'm sure you draw the Dark Mark on your arm in Bic pen whenever you get bored. Can we _please_ get him some real help now?"

"Yeah, yeah." House was already back in the kitchen, opening drawers and slamming them. He returned a moment later, this time armed with a syringe and a packet of alcohol wipes.

"What's that?" asked Thirteen.

House said nothing as he tore open the wipes and disinfected a spot on Wilson's upper arm. He bit the cap off the end of the syringe and stuck Wilson with it. Wilson barely batted an eyelash.

"Happy now?" asked House, pulling out the syringe.

They both watched Wilson for a reaction. After a few moments, House exhaled the breath he'd been holding while Thirteen grabbed the vial and read its label.

"You really think an antiarrhythmic's going to make him all better?" she asked, sounding unimpressed.

House placed his fingers against Wilson's neck to check his pulse. "Quinidine's not working. We need someone who knows more about the fairy tale end of things, not the witchcraft end of things."

"Or how about we need an ambulance?"

"We can't take him to the hospital," said House.

"Why not?"

"Because he might not be Wilson!" House snapped. He sighed, calming himself. "You wanna help him, find me someone who actually knows what all that neopagan crap in your bag is good for."

As if on cue, the tea kettle in the kitchen began to whistle.

* * *

"Don't drop him," said House as he and Thirteen shuffled into the bedroom with Wilson's sluggish weight leaning between them.

"Yeah, I'll be sure and do my best. Especially when he falls on me."

"If he does, we'll know he's faking. Means he gets to feel up the orthopedic nurses. Trust me, I've seen it before."

"You're such an ass."

"Watch it. Don't trip over the rug."

They wove their way over to the bed and pushed Wilson onto it. Thirteen straightened his legs in an attempt to make him more comfortable.

"There," said House, stepping back, satisfied.

"Yeah, for someone who's nearly catatonic, he looks pretty good," said Thirteen. "Mind if I call 9-1-1 now?"

"Nope."

"Then why did we drag him all the way in here?"

House ignored the question and went back out in the living room.

Thirteen sighed, annoyed. "House--"

She was about to follow, but House returned a second later armed with a piece of paper and a pen.

"What are you doing?"

"Do you know the Abracadabra amulet?" asked House.

Thirteen blinked. She'd never imagined those words would get past House's lips. Her shocked look must have been the confirmation House needed; he handed her the pen and paper. "Write it down."

Thirteen took the paper and held it up against the wall to write. Her hands were shaking slightly, but she managed to form the letters of the silly amulet she'd learned while scouring every witchcraft and magic book she'd been able to get her hands on as a teenager:

A - B - R - A - C- A - D - A - B - R- AA - B - R - A - C - A - D - A - B - RA - B - R - A - C - A - D - A - BA - B - R - A - C - A - D - AA - B - R - A - C - A - DA - B - R - A - C - AA - B - R - A - CA - B - R - AA - B - RA - BA

She finished and capped the pen, then looked up to see House searching Wilson's body. He'd pulled Wilson's shirt up and was carefully examining every inch of skin with clinical, detached scrutiny.

"What are you doing?"

House glanced up. "Finished?" He waved her over.

Thirteen joined him at Wilson's side and watched House search. He moved from Wilson's torso to his arms, running his hands down each one and twisting them at all angles in the poor light from the windows.

"Spider bite?" guessed Thirteen.

"Yep," said House quietly. "Covering my ass. You should feel privileged."

Thirteen glanced down at House's jeans. "Well, it's a nice ass. And don't worry. You're secret's safe with me."

"Hard to explain amulets and potentially deadly herbal remedies when the attending finds a spider bite on Wilson's hiney."

"So we _are_ taking him to the hospital?" asked Thirteen.

House evaded the question by gesturing for the piece of paper. Thirteen handed it to him.

"This is really ridiculous," she said.

House tore around the edges of the amulet until he had a ragged-looking triangle of paper. He tucked it under Wilson's watch band so it lay against his skin.

"No--" Thirteen pointed. "It's supposed to go on his forehead or around his neck."

"You read too many trashy fantasy novels and not enough Sammonicus as a teenager."

"And you're relying too much on what you think is reliable science, when amulets only work if you brush science under the rug." Thirteen removed the paper from under Wilson's watch. "If we're going for crazy, House, then we're going all the way. It goes on his forehead."

She lay the triangle of paper on Wilson's forehead.

Houses nodded. "Good for you."

He turned and headed for the door.

"Where you are you going?"

"Hospital," said House.

"But... why did we drag him all the way in here, then?"

"Rain Man's staying put."

"You're just going to leave him?"

"Yep. Come on." House left the room.

Thirteen hastily drew a blanket over Wilson before following House down the hall and out the door.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, House pushed through the swinging doors of Operating Room Number Four at Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital with Thirteen in tow.

Six pairs of eyes framed in blue surgical scrubs looked up in surprise as they barged into the room.

"House, you can't just come in here," said Taub from behind his surgical mask.

House ignored him and aimed for Kutner. "What do you know about changelings?" he asked.

"Uh, that depends." Kutner glanced nervously at the other doctors and nurses, self-conscious at being singled out.

"On what?" asked House.

"Excuse me--" said Taub.

"On how sober you are right now?" guessed Chase, who continued calmly with the surgery despite being interrupted by House.

"House is convinced Wilson was kidnapped by goblins yesterday," said Thirteen, holding a spare surgical mask to her face. "Feel free to offer up any opinions."

"And... let me guess, you managed to track down where they'd secretly stashed him under a tree?" asked Kutner.

"Yep," said House. "An oak tree. Oak trees are fairy trees, right?"

"So like I said, it would depend on how sober you are right now," said Chase.

"Thirteen's got all the Wiccan stuff down," said House. He pointed at Kutner. "But _you_ know folklore."

"And _I_ know airplanes," said Taub. "And Foreman knows cars. Can we please worry about this guy's intestines?"

"So what if I know folklore?" asked Kutner, pulling down his mask. "There's a lot of different kinds, House. It covers a pretty big area."

"What do you know about changelings?" asked House.

"Not much. I used to think I was one. What do _you_ know about changelings? Because it's probably as much as the average person knows, including me."

Taub pushed the surgical cart out of the way and moved to stand directly between Kutner and House. "Excuse me, but in case you haven't noticed, we have a patient here. If we could get back to treating him instead of waxing mystical, that would be great."

House ignored him. "What about enchantment?" he asked Kutner.

"You mean like... spells?" Kutner arched a curious eyebrow.

"Incantations," said House. "Curses. Fairy kidnapping PTSD. What do you do with someone once they're home and having adjustment issues?"

"You mean like in a Rip Van Winkle sort of adjustment?"

"I can't believe this," said Taub. "There is a door, you know. With an entire hospital on the other side it where you three can continue this fascinating discussion without the risk of infecting our patient."

"What about silver rings?" asked House.

"Guys, seriously. The patient?"

"A salmon that swallows a silver ring," House went on. "Get that anywhere in _Tam Lin_?"

"Not that I know of--" Kutner touched his chin in thought.

"That's Scottish," said Chase.

House, Kutner, and Taub looked at him

" _Tam Lin_ is a Scottish myth, but your salmon is Irish." Chase spoke through his mask, latex gloves slicked with bright blood. "Not the part about the ring. That sounds more like Solomon. But the Salmon of Knowledge is definitely Irish. After the seventh century, all the way up to the dindsenchas."

House blinked. "Okay, I think we should be talking to you."

* * *

House pushed past the swinging door and stepped out of the OR with Chase in tow.

Chase lowered his surgical mask and put his hands on his hips expectantly. He'd snapped of his gloves and tossed them in the bin, but his apron was still smeared in blood.

"Salmon of Knowledge," said House. "Go."

Chase sighed. "What do you want to know? It's a salmon. And it has knowledge."

"Did it ever swallow a ring?"

"Not that I know of. There's another story about a fish that swallows King Solomon's signet ring, though--"

"So the 'smart fish' theme is pretty prevalent in folklore."

Chase shrugged. "Yeah, I guess so."

"What happens if you eat the Salmon of Knowledge? Does destruction rain down from the heavens?"

"You're thinking of the Tree of Knowledge," said Chase. "The salmon's more about gaining wisdom."

"What about changelings?"

"Changelings don't have anything to do with the salmon. Unless you're talking about the Fenian Cycle, but since I have a patient currently under anesthetic--"

"He can wait," said House. "What's the Fenian Cycle?"

"That's Irish myth, too. Finn--he's the main character. In one of the stories, he burns his thumb while cooking the salmon, and when he sucks his thumb, he tastes some of the grease, and that's how he gets all the wisdom he needs later in life to be a great warrior."

House nodded slowly, absorbing the story.

Chase looked down at his bloodstained scrubs. "Mind if I go save my patient's life now?"

* * *

They were still wearing their scrubs but had stripped out of their surgical gear when House lead them--Kutner, Chase, Taub, Foreman, and Thirteen--into his bedroom to see Wilson.

For a solid minute, no one said anything. They stared at Wilson, then stared at House as if waiting for the punchline.

Finally, Chase spoke up. "What happened to him?"

"I already told you," said House. He gestured at Wilson as if Wilson's presence was explanation enough. "He ate the fish and went crazy. I found him under a tree this morning."

"Seriously, House," said Chase.

"Seriously."

Taub looked at House. "You mean Wilson's the changeling?"

"No, he said Wilson was under a spell," Kutner corrected. He looked to House for confirmation. "Is that right?"

"Does this have anything to do with your ring?" asked Taub.

"Wait a minute," said Chase. "So you think the fairies put a spell on the salmon you ate, and it did something to Wilson that made him crawl under a tree?"

Foreman laughed.

"I didn't say crawl," said House. "I said I found him there. I don't know how he got there, but unless you have a better theory--"

"Only about a million," said Chase.

Kutner went to the side of the bed and looked down at Wilson. "Are you sure he's not just asleep?"

Foreman joined Kutner and flashed his pen light in Wilson's eyes. "He _is_ asleep. He's in REM atonia."

"His heart rate's too high," said Thirteen.

"Why don't we wake him up and ask him what happened?" suggested Taub.

"Already tried that," said House. "And then some."

"Look, maybe you should just throw the ring back in the lake," offered Chase. "Maybe they're pissed because you stole it."

"They?"

"You're right," said Foreman. "This is crazy. I think Wilson needs a shot of norepinephrine, and I think you two--" he pointed at House and Chase-- "need to take a long vacation. I'm leaving now. Unless you feel like letting the real doctors take over, in which case, you know my number."

Foreman strode from the room, leaving Kutner, Chase, Thirteen, and House standing and staring at each other.

Finally, House turned to Chase.

"Who are they?" he asked.

"What?"

"You said _they_ might be pissed. Who are they?"

"I was joking, House."

"So finish the joke," said House.

Chase straightened as if bracing himself for humiliation. "Okay, _they_ are the fairies."

House stared at him.

"I don't mean like Tinkerbell," Chase said quickly. "I mean like _faerie_ , like the pagan rulers of the otherworld. Spirits."

"This is crazy," said Taub.

"No, he's right," said Kutner. "That's where Tolkien got most of his ideas. Fairie lore is loaded with stories about magical rings. Andvarinaut, Draupnir, the Ring of Gyges. Rings are how The Lady of the Lake imprisoned Merlin--she tricked him into falling in love with her after giving him an enchanted ring, and he wound up stuck inside the trunk of a tree."

"What kind of tree?" asked House.

Kutner shrugged. "No idea. But maybe the ring is keeping the same thing from happening to you that happened to Wilson."

House stepped around the bed to stare down at Wilson's blinking-yet-unfocused eyes. The abracadabra amulet still lay on his forehead.

"Look, this stuff isn't meant to be taken literally," said Chase. "You can't honestly believe any of it. It's all symbolism and allegory. Things likes rings are nothing more than plot coupons."

House gestured down at Wilson. "You don't think this counts as a plot?"

* * *

The clock on House's mantle struck four as one rerun of _The Brady Bunch_ ended and another began. The television was muted, though, so all the plastic smiles added up to nothing more than a strange, silent picture.

"I have to go," said Chase, arriving from the bedroom, his Adidas Sambas visible out of the corner of House's eye. "My shift starts in twenty minutes."

House nodded from where he was sitting at the end of the sofa, staring at the television but not really watching it.

There was a pause, and House wasn't surprised when Chase exhaled a resigned sigh a moment later.

"Foreman's right, House," he said. "Wilson needs a hospital. He needs real medical care, not the four of us sitting around rolling ten-sided D & D dice, arguing about sea nymphs."

"Are sea nymphs a part of ring lore?"

"Wilson's _sick_. If you won't do something to help him, then maybe one of us should."

Chase located the halves of his jacket and zipped them together, all the way up to his chin.

He waited for a response from House, but House didn't say anything.

"Fine," said Chase softly, turning to leave.

The front door slammed in his wake, and the apartment was left empty except for House and Wilson.

House switched his gaze from Cindy Brady's curls on the television to the clock on the mantle. He watched the secondhand move around its face. He was too far away to hear the actual ticking but confident the hidden mechanism was driving the internal gears just as it always did.

Clocks were pretty terrible inventions, House decided. He understood the need for telling accurate time when it was necessary, but the basic concept--the way humans obsessed over every single moment--it seemed so limiting. Time was going to move forward whether you had a clock or not.

If he were immortal, House thought, he probably would've liked clocks a lot more. But with a weakening liver, a middle-aged heart, and a few comas and near-death experiences stacked against him, he was the furthest thing from immortal that he could think of.

House sighed and turned off the television. He rose with his cane and hobbled down the hall to the bedroom. It was getting dark outside; a comforting silence was settling over the apartment.

He lingered in his bedroom doorway and watched Wilson, who lay with sleep-heavy eyes in his bed, dressed in House's pajamas and a spare sweatshirt for warmth. The abracadabra charm had been thrown away hours earlier after Kutner had gotten it into his head to experiment with other amulets, everything from alchemy symbols to magic squares. House had finally put a stop to Kutner's experiments after he'd run out of room on Wilson's skin to draw things with a marker.

Now, Wilson looked ridiculous, covered in marker, most of it smeared or fading, not caring in his catatonic state. A liminal presence, blinking dreamily and responding to nothing.

Almost as if his body didn't know what time it was, thought House.

An idea suddenly occurred to him.

House went to his closet and found his medical bag and dug through it. He located what he was looking for in seconds, then made his way back to the bedroom.

He went to the side of the bed and switched on a lamp. Holding the object he'd retrieved from the medical bag in one hand, he lay his other hand firmly on Wilson's thigh to hold him still.

"Hope this works," he said under his breath. "Or your mom's going to stop sending me apricot hamantashen."

He plunged the object in his hand--an EpiPen--into the meat of Wilson's thigh.

Wilson snapped awake with a gasp, body jerking upright as he was kick-started back to life. He clutched his chest, startled, trying to breathe.

House dropped the EpiPen on the bed and thumped Wilson gently between the shoulder blades as the other man was overwhelmed by a fit of coughing.

"You hear me?" House asked calmly, ignoring Wilson's coughs and gasps as he clicked on his penlight and grasped Wilson's shoulder, turning him until they were facing each other. "Nod if you think _The Magician_ was way cooler than _The Incredible Hulk_."

Wilson's face was flushed from coughing. After a moment, he managed a nod.

"Far out," said House. "Epi is supposed to kick-start V-tach." He flicked the penlight across Wilson's pupils. "Know what day it is? Know who I am?"

Wilson squinted up at him. "Joe Gannon?"

House rolled his eyes and switched off the light. "I oughta put you right back under for that."

"I could have said Kojak." Wilson swallowed and coughed some more.

"And I could've given you the blue pill instead of the red pill."

Wilson looked down at his arms, marker-covered courtesy of Kutner. "What the hell happened?"


	4. Chapter 4

"House?!"

Chase had to shout over voices, and House guessed he was in the ER with Cameron. Probably on his dinner break.

"Need you to check out Wilson's apartment for me," said House.

"What for?"

"Wilson was brewing something there the other night. I wanna know what it was."

"You think he ate something?"

"I'm not sure, which is why I need you to check."

"Wouldn't it be easier to bring him to the hospital and test his blood for toxins?"

"Yeah. It was probably just some harmless catnip-flavored goulash he ate. You should make idiotic guesses like that more often."

"Where are you?" asked Chase.

"Just see if you can get me a recipe. Wouldn't want Wilson to kick the bucket on your shift."

House flipped his phone shut before Chase could ask him anymore useless questions. He tucked the phone in his pocket and settled both hands on the steering wheel. The light turned green, and he gassed it around the corner.

"Where are we going?" asked Wilson drowsily from the passenger seat.

"Fishing," said House.

Wilson sighed the way House himself sometimes did when his whole body hurt, when he was too tired to move from the sofa. One EpiPen had been enough to rouse him from his strange catatonic state, but not by very much; House had had barely enough time to help Wilson wash off the marker and wrangle him into a pair of his jeans and some old sneakers before the adrenaline had worn off and he'd slunk back into his current drowsy, half-conscious state. It had helped though; Wilson was no longer unresponsive and was now behaving more like he did when he was drunk, and at least House had been able to get him out the door and into the car without having to hold his hand.

"I don't think I like fish," sighed Wilson.

"It's okay. You don't have to eat this one."

"Oh, good."

Wilson closed his eyes and let his head rest against the passenger window.

"Hey." House reached over and nudged him in the shoulder. "Don't fall asleep on me. Make yourself useful and check your pulse."

Wilson looked confused for a moment, but he brought his fingers to his neck obediently and furrowed his brow in concentration.

"Too fast," he declared, then made an uncomfortable sound in the back of his throat. "God, I'm so tired, House."

"We're almost there," said House.

They arrived at the boathouse parking lot well after dark. House pulled all the way to the end. He checked his mirrors to make sure no one was around, then accelerated slowly over the bank across the soft, uneven grass toward the lake.

He parked as close to the water as he could. He turned off the motor, stepped out of the car, and found the old boat propped against the tree exactly where he'd asked Kutner to leave it.

House made a mental note to buy Kutner an ice cream sundae as he eased the boat to the wet ground, then pushed it down the bank with the help of his cane. It slid easily into the water with a soft slosh.

House squinted, trying to find the rope in the dark to tie the boat off to the dock so it wouldn't drift. At least the moon was out, he thought, even though he could tell a good amount of fog was settling over the lake. He'd have to hurry.

He wasn't exactly sure what he planned to do once they were on the water, so he didn't bother thinking that far. His first goal was to get Wilson into the boat, a task that proved so difficult he might as well have decided to run a marathon. House wasn't in any shape to lug a human body around, especially not one that weighed more than he did and had two working legs compared to House's one. And Wilson wasn't exactly in a state to lend a hand. When he actually did listen to House, it was only to acknowledge him with a groan or another "Where are we going?"

It took over twenty minutes to get Wilson out of the car, onto the dock, and finally settled in the boat. By that time, it was all House could do not to collapse on the dock and pass out from exhaustion.

"Where are we going?" asked Wilson again.

"Mini-golfing," said House. He crawled into the boat and situated himself at the oars.

Wilson tipped his head back and closed his eyes. "House, I'm really tired."

"Yeah," said House, loosening the boat's oars and lowering them into the water. "Me too."

He began rowing.

The moon guided him at first, but soon the fog rolled in and blocked his view of the far shore.

"Dammit," muttered House.

He kept rowing in the direction he'd started, determined to get across the lake. He wasn't sure why he wanted to get across, or how that would do them any good, but it seemed important. Somehow, somewhere in the back of his mind, he felt the need to cross water. This was the only way to fix things, his brain kept whispering in its irrational, urgent way--the way it always did when he was treating a patient and knew the answer, _knew_ he knew it, and yet couldn't seem to scoop it free from his tangled mind.

House laughed to himself, wondering if this was how Immanuel Kant felt while outlining his antinomies.

He rowed until he thought his arms would break off at the shoulders like a busted G.I. Joe action figure. He paused to rest, and that's when he noticed the blue-green light filtering up from the water all around him. The same light he'd seen the night Wilson had vanished. It glowed under the boat and danced off Wilson's half-asleep face.

House lay his hands on the oars, not sure if he should continue rowing. He could smell dirt, of all things. He could smell spices and flowers.

He didn't think Lake Carnegie was so wide, but apparently it was, because when he finally remembered to look around, he saw dawn was approaching.

The blue-green light faded, and the smells went away, and the fog began to lift.

"Are we across the lake?" Wilson sat up and peered out of the boat.

House squinted, trying to discern landmarks through the thinning fog, trying to figure out how one hour could have turned into five hours, trying to figure how many Vicodin it took to actually trigger a hallucination and if he'd reached that limit.

"I don't know," said.

Something wasn't right. New Jersey was supposed to be here, not... well, _mountains_. And that's what House could see now. Great, dark mountains vanishing in the mist.

If they'd been in Scotland, it would have been pretty, but since this was supposed to be New Jersey, House wasn't sure what to think.

So much for Immanuel Kant.

House pulled his cellphone from his pocket and flipped it open, then frowned at the lack of signal.

"Anything?" asked Wilson.

House put his phone away. "Korean happy hour."

For the next ten minutes, he and Wilson merely sat in the boat as it drifted several yards from the new, alien shore. Gentle waves thumped softly against the boat's metal hull.

House wasn't sure what to do, but inaction didn't sit well in his gut for very long, so eventually, he gave one last stroke, then pulled the oars into the boat and let the craft drift into shore.

"Come on," he said to Wilson, as the boat scraped bottom. "Let's check out this hallucination before it fizzles away."

Wilson stood quickly as if startled awake. He tried to step out of the boat and immediately stumbled, face flushed, lightheaded, and nearly fell in the water.

House gripped him by the arm. "Easy."

"I'm fine," said Wilson, raising a hand in check.

House grabbed his cane and clambered out of the boat ahead of Wilson.

"Can you walk?" He helped Wilson step out.

"Yeah, I think so."

Wilson swayed a little on his feet. He grasped House's shoulder to steady himself.

"You look better," said House. "Epi's wearing off."

"I feel okay."

"Yeah?"

"I feel good. Where the hell are we?"

"I have no idea," said House. He took a moment to glance up and down the shore. He looked back the way they'd come and saw a wall of fog that hid home from view--if home was even there. House wasn't sure.

"Come on, I see a path."

"Where?"

"Right there," said House. He pointed at the dark rocks directly in front of them.

"House, that's not a path. That's a hole in a mountain."

"Path's a path," shrugged House. "Can't start second-guessing a hallucination once you're in the middle of one."

"Is that roundabout for a roller coaster metaphor? How can we share a hallucination?"

"Well, probably just my hallucination, then."

Wilson shrugged and gestured at the path leading into the mountain. "Lead the way."

"Seriously?"

"What?"

"You're not cautiously demanding we stay with the boat? Or write SOS on the beach with rocks? That seems uncharacteristic of the Wilson I know."

"And rowing a boat across a lake and then suggesting a spelunking trip seems uncharacteristic of the House I know."

House conceded with a nod. "Fair enough."

He turned and lead the way up the rocky, uneven shore toward the cave entrance. Once there, he paused so Wilson could catch his breath.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Wilson closed his eyes for a moment as if savoring the adrenaline. Then he peered into the dark cave. "You really wanna go in there?"

"Why not?" House tapped a Vicodin out of the bottle into his palm, then swallowed it.

"I suppose it doesn't matter that neither of us remembered to bring a flashlight."

"You're lucky I remembered you," said House. "I was set on making this place my super secret hideout."

Wilson grinned and pushed himself off the rock wall where he'd been leaning. He followed House into the cave.

Almost immediately, they realized they didn't need a flashlight. The black cave was licked in torch light that reflected off the damp walls in trembling shades of orange and yellow.

At the base of a large outcropping of rock next to the nearest torch stood a man.

Or _something resembling a man_ , though neither House nor Wilson could be sure. He was roughly the size of a man, but his head was enormous. His jaw looked like a wedge of rock, and his arms were so long that his knuckles nearly brushed the floor. He was wearing a massive assemblage of spiked, bronze armor, and he held an ax whose blade was nearly as big as the boat House had stolen.

House strolled right up to the creature and greeted it with a wave.

"Hi there."

"What are you doing?" Wilson tried to pull him back to safety. "Don't talk to it."

"Why? Think he might eat me?"

"Keep going, maybe you'll find out."

"Come on, he's shorter than I am, and this is the only way into the cave."

"His ax isn't shorter than you are," said Wilson.

"I'll be fine. Hallucination, remember? And at least now we know we're going the right way."

"How do you figure?"

"If this cave weren't important, then why would someone be guarding it?" asked House. He pried Wilson's fingers from his shoulder and approached the beastly-looking man. House guessed he was a guard or sentry of some sort; he looked like he'd walked right out of a Dungeons & Dragons monster guide.

"We'd like to get into your mountain," said House.

The guard's beady eyes shifted inside his monstrous skull. "No one enters without payment," he growled.

"Enter what? We're new to this place."

The guard glared at him for a long moment before he spoke again. "Payment."

"Right," said House slowly as he realized he was dealing with a one-track mind. "Well, I didn't bring my checkbook, and Wilson left his wallet in the car, so unless you want--"

"No passage."

"House, maybe we should leave him alone," said Wilson.

"But I want to get into the mountain. Don't you?"

Wilson looked around at their dark, flickering surroundings. "Not really, no."

House turned and smiled up at the guard. "Don't listen to him. He's a pessimist. Come on, let us pass."

"Payment first," said the guard.

"Wilson, give him your watch."

"What?"

"Your--Never mind. Here." House grabbed Wilson's wrist and slid the metal link bracelet off Wilson's hand in one swift move before Wilson could stop him.

"Hey! That's--"

"What about this, huh?" House dangled the watch in front of the guard's face. "Nice human watch. Very shiny. Totally overpriced."

The guard took the watch in his thick fingers and examined it. One of his monstrous eyebrows quirked. "I accept the payment," he said. "You may enter."

"Thank you--" House moved to step past the guard.

" _He_ may not." The guard pointed at Wilson, then blocked Wilson's path with his ax.

"But that's the whole point," said House. "I didn't come here for my health. I came here for his."

"He did not pay," said the guard.

"And you don't think an overpriced wristwatch counts?"

"You paid for yourself."

"House, maybe you shouldn't be arguing with him?" offered Wilson.

"Look, it's not every day we decide to grace this world with our presence," said House. He moved over to Wilson, stood behind him, and put both hands on his shoulders as if to present him. "Don't you know who this is?"

"What are you doing?" Wilson whispered nervously.

"He's like a prince among humans," House went on. "They all worship him. You're insulting him by making him wait."

"You have nothing else to give," said the guard. " _He_ cannot pass."

"Fine," said House. "Wilson, don't break anything. And don't wander off."

"Wait, House--"

"I'll be right back. I just gotta talk to the guy who owns this place."

"We don't even know where we are. If we're sick. If _you're_ hallucinating. If _I'm_ dreaming. This is insane."

"Exactly. Which is why it won't hurt you to chill here for five minutes while I talk to whatever magical dude lives in this magical cave."

Wilson sighed and plunked himself down on the outcropping of rock near the entrance.

"Don't worry," said House. "I won't be long."

House turned and headed up the rock into the cave proper.

A myriad scenarios ran through House's mind as he left Wilson behind and crept along the dark tunnel. He imagined running into the Black Beast of Aaaaarrrrrrggghhh at any moment--or spiders, or huge boulders, or even zombies--and was therefore relieved when the dark, smelly tunnel quickly turned into a bright, clean cave chamber.

It was a small room, paved in pale marble tiles, marked with an arched wooden door built right into the rock. Sitting next to the door on a small wooden stool was a child in a suit of armor. Fast asleep and snoring lightly.

Some guard, thought House.

He steeled himself for the confrontation that seemed inevitable; the door the child was guarding was padlocked.

House coughed lightly into his fist. When that didn't wake the guard, he knocked his cane against the wall. When that didn't work, he banged his cane against the ceiling and was instantly showered in pebbles and dust.

The armored guard woke at once. He leapt to his feet, sword ready, and threw up his helmet visor.

"Who are you?" he demanded, narrowing his blue eyes up at House.

House's lips quirked as a laugh threatened to bubble out of him. The boy looked like he'd walked off the set of a Jim Henson film. His armor was elaborate, clearly a few sizes too big, accented by pointy leather shoes and red stockings. He could barely hold up his sword, but his expression remained fierce.

"Fair Labor Standards Act must have gotten lost in the mail," said House.

"I asked you once, stranger. Tell me who you are before I run you through!"

"I'm a doctor. Know what that is?"

"What are you doing at the doorstep of my master?"

House pointed at the locked door with his cane. "I want to get in."

The boy lowered his sword. "Oh. Is that all? I was hoping you'd come for a fight. It's been ages since I've been in a good fight."

"How old are you?" asked House.

The boy straightened. "I'm as old as you and twice as strong."

"Right."

The boy lowered his head in shame. "No, I'm not. I'm only nine. But I do know how to fight." He slid his sword back into its scabbard, which was so long it scraped the floor. "Not that you would want to fight me. You don't even have a weapon." He pointed at House. "Except for that stick. What's that, then, your staff?"

House looked down at his cane. "'Fraid not."

"Oh, so you're not a wizard? That's too bad. I'm only allowed to let wizards in to see the king."

"King?"

"Yeah, the king under the mountain." The boy's eyes widened. "Say, you wouldn't be a wizard in disguise would you? Trying to test me at my job?" His hand went to his sword again. "I won't let you in if you're not a real wizard."

"How do I prove I'm a real wizard?" asked House.

"Can you do magic? Only wizards can do magic. And the sea people. But they don't come here."

"Have you met many wizards?" asked House, reaching for his cellphone.

"Oh, not many. It's a pretty boring job, actually."

"How long have you been here?"

"I don't know," shrugged the boy. "Ages, I guess."

House knelt down to the boy's level and held out his cellphone.

The boy's eye lit up at the sight of the sleekly modern device. "Wow, it's a seeing stone!"

House handed it over and let the kid play with the buttons with reckless, unfamiliar abandon. The phone was hopelessly out of range, anyway. It wasn't like he could hurt it.

In the meantime, House studied the kid's face. He noted his long, narrow nose, high cheekbones, pale hair, and broad hands--not your average British kid, thought House. Scandinavian, maybe. And he had a strange accent. Not French, and not English, but somewhere in the middle.

"What's your name?, kid" asked House.

"Robert," said the boy. "From Melfi."

House narrowed his eyes. "Who's your father?"

The boy straightened nobly. "My father is Tancred of Guichard, sir. A Norman from the Cotentin."

House wondered then if his brain hadn't succumbed to the same fate as Wilson's heart; maybe this was, in fact, a full-blown hallucination.

"How did you get here?" House asked, wondering if the boy's next answer would trigger enough to lucidity that he'd find himself awake and safely back on Baker Street.

The boy gave House a mildly suspicious look while fiddling with his sword. "The king invited me. I was brought by boat across the lake on All Hallow's Eve. By the sea people." He handed the phone back to House. "You really are a wizard, aren't you?"

"Yeah. I'm a wizard all right. Think I can get in, now?" House gestured at the door.

"Of course," said Robert. He pulled an iron ring from his belt that held a single key.

As he unlocked the door, he turned to House and smiled. "Good luck."

"Yeah," said House, ducking through the open door. "Same to you. Watch out for tarantulas."

"What's _tarantulas_?" asked Robert.

* * *

The room was high and wide, carved out of white marble and shimmering with soft light from dozens of torches. At the far end stood a marble throne, and a man was sitting there. He wore long, white robes and a silver mask over his face.

House stood staring at the masked man, wondering just how far this hallucination would go. Then the door closed and locked behind him, snapping him back to the moment. He took a deep breath and approached the throne.

"S'happenin'," he waved.

"Who are you?" asked the masked man.

"That's a loaded question. Considering you're supposed to be the figment, and I'm supposed to be the imagination. I should be asking _you_ who you are."

"I am the King Under the Mountain."

Of course, thought House. That makes perfect sense.

"Well, I'm the Great Healer from Across the Lake, and my friend, the Great Idiot Philanderer, is very sick, and he needs your help."

"If you are a great healer, then can you not heal your friend?"

"See, that's the thing. He didn't exactly get sick _there_. He got sick _here_. Or I think that's how it happened, anyway. We ate one of your fish, and then he went crazy and vanished, and then I found the real him under a tree."

"Why do you seek my council if you already know the answer to your questions?"

"But I don't know the answer. I just gave you the back story."

The king--or whatever he was--stood from his throne and took a few steps toward House. He was taller than House would have guessed, and there was something oddly familiar about the way he walked.

"I am not a healer, so I cannot help your friend, whatever ails him."

"Don't you have a personal doctor or something?" asked House. "I thought all kings under mountains had those."

The masked man was unfazed by House's sarcasm. "If you want to help your friend, I suggest you seek an audience with the king."

"Is that the king under the _other_ mountain?"

"The king of the sea."

"Oh, right. The sea people. Your door warden back there mentioned them."

"He will be able to help you, though he might take some convincing. Payment will be necessary."

"What kind of payment? I'm all out of watches."

"I cannot say for certain, but I can tell you that a ring of protection would be considered quite a prize among the sea people. Were you to offer their king such payment, he might be more willing to assist you."

House looked down at his hand and wondered what sort of implication a suggestion by an underground mask-wearing king to cut off his own finger might have on his mental health.

"So... what, I give up my finger, and Wilson gets better?"

"Tell me," said the king, his dark eyes glittering behind his silver mask. "How much do you value your friend?"

* * *

"What did he say?" asked Wilson, rising from his seat as House returned.

"He said my ring is pretty, and we're getting a free ride to the ocean."

"What ocean?"

"The one with all the water," said House.

"You mean _the_ ocean."

"Yep. Definite article and everything."

"But that's hours away."

"If we were in Jersey, that would be true," said House. "This obviously isn't Jersey."

"Does he have a car or something?" asked Wilson.

"A mustang," said House. "And I mean that literally. Except it's probably not a mustang. Some northern European sort of horse. A Friesian or a charger or whatever they call them."

"Oh, a horse. Well, that makes everything easier."

"Or a unicorn," said House. "One that can magically carry us across the ocean to the sea king."

"Oh, the sea king," Wilson nodded. "Yes, now it's all starting to make sense."

House narrowed his eyes. "Are you being sarcastic?"

"Why, is it showing?"

"You would be wise not to linger" said a low, booming voice.

House and Wilson both turned and saw the silver-masked king gazing down at them from the outcropping of rock.

"Is that him?" asked Wilson.

"Yep," said House.

"You will find a Fell Pony grazing on the grasses that grow on the western side of this hill," the masked man pointed. "Be careful that you are not waylaid on your journey."

He turned and stepped back into the shadows.

"You just had a chat with that guy?" asked Wilson as they headed out of the cave.

"I met Robert the Fox, too," said House.

"Robert the who?"

"Conqueror of Sicily. Eleventh century."

"Okay, but not really him, I'm guessing. A pretend version of him."

"He had the seal of Apulia on his breastplate," said House.

"How do you know what the seal of Apulia even looks like?"

"Apulian vase painting," said House. "I once diagnosed an Italian artist who drank a gallon of slip to get out of marrying his girlfriend."

"Italians," said Wilson.

"Tell me about it."

* * *

"House, I have a theory."

"Not now," said House, sounding out of breath as he trudged up the hill ahead of Wilson.

The path was vague, overwhelmed in places by ferns and tree branches that curled down at annoying eyeball-jabbing level. But it was there, mossy and soft, and House found that if he didn't think too hard about keeping to it, it sort of followed itself.

"It can wait," Wilson nodded.

That, of course, was enough to pique House's curiosity. He stopped and turned.

"I was just thinking that maybe the reason I'm feeling better--and I do feel a lot better--is because of this place."

"Is that really your theory?" asked House.

"Why? Do you think it sucks?"

"I think it's a moot point." House turned and started up the path again, pushing past springy twigs with his cane and not caring when they snapped back and smacked Wilson. "We can't actually stay here in Middle-earth. What matters is when you go home and become Asparagus-Wilson again. And we don't like him, remember? He's a drag at parties."

"But this is fun, right? Being in the woods. Walking."

House gave him a look over his shoulder.

"Or not."

"Yeah, heaps of fun. Like Roland and Olivier."

"Look, I just feel like this is a good place, that's all. I feel like we were supposed to come here, wherever 'here' is. And maybe--" Wilson ducked as House pushed past the last few branches as they arrived at the top of the hill.

They both stopped as Wilson's sentence ended lingeringly. "Maybe something amazing will happen..."

Beyond the trees lay a wide, rolling field of grass so green it seemed to glow like Forest glass beneath the gray sky.

There was a horse grazing in the middle of it, just as the masked king had promised. Deep black from ear to tail with long hair hanging in its eyes, it looked like it had participated in its share of fairy tales.

"Apparently that's a Fell Pony," said House.

"Maybe he's tame."

"She."

"No saddle," said Wilson. "And there are two of us."

"Anytime you feel like _not_ stating the obvious."

Wilson glanced around at the surrounding underbrush. "Maybe we can lure her with something. Find some berries, maybe."

Suddenly, the dark animal began trotting toward them.

Wilson felt his body tense as the urge to flee took over.

"Don't run," said House. "You'll scare her."

"Then things would be _even_."

But House stood his ground, so Wilson stayed.

The pony came right up to them and fixed her gaze on Wilson. She sniffed at him curiously. Her intelligent, oil-slick eyes blinked, reflecting gray clouds. A soft breeze stirred the dark hair draping her face.

She wasn't as big as she'd looked in the field. In fact, standing where she was now, she was plainly shorter than House. But she looked powerful, swift and spirited.

Wilson reached out a tentative hand. The pony shied at first then allowed the touch, learning Wilson's scent as he petted her nose.

"God, even with animals, you're the world's biggest flirt," said House.

Wilson looked at House as if to say, _What do I do?_

"See if she'll let you ride her."

"Without a saddle?"

"Sure," said House.

"Without reins?"

"What's the matter with you? Didn't you ever watch _The Black Stallion_?"

"I haven't been on a horse since I was ten," said Wilson. "And that was at a carnival. The horse was older than the state of Kansas and stole my bottle of Nehi Grape right out of my hand."

"Okay, Radar."

"I'm just saying."

Wilson stepped around to the side of the pony, letting his hand glide along her neck soothingly. The pony held perfectly still and allowed the petting.

"How do I get on?" asked Wilson.

House left the safety of the trees and made his way around the horse to stand at Wilson's side.

"Grab the mane and pull yourself up. I'll give you a boost."

"Won't that hurt her?"

"If she kicks you to death, then we'll come up with another plan."

"Terrific," said Wilson.

He wound a hank of the horse's black hair in his hand, braced his other hand on her back, then hopped on one foot a few times to ready himself.

He hesitated. "This isn't going to work."

"Sure, it is. She's just a pony. Be glad she's not a Percheron, or we'd need a ladder."

Wilson took a deep breath. "Don't kill me, horsey."

With a grunt, he hoisted himself onto the pony's back. He struggled at the last second, and House obliged by shoving his right foot so he could swing his leg over the pony's side and right himself.

The pony snorted but didn't bolt or kick, and Wilson found himself sitting astride the animal, shifting around to find a comfortable position against her withers. He smoothed the twist of hair in his left hand. There was nothing to hold onto. Nothing to help him keep his balance. With no where else to put them, he let his hands rest on his thighs.

"Now for the hard part," said House.

"You think she can hold both of us?"

"Of course she can," said House, handing Wilson his cane. "You've seen _Ladyhawke_. She could probably carry the entire pediatrics ward if she wanted to."

The best way for House to get on the pony, the two of them eventually decided, was to use Wilson's body to pull himself up.

Wilson took a grip on the pony's mane with his right hand, then turned and reached for House with his left.

House gripped Wilson's forearm, hopped once on his good foot, then lifted himself onto the pony's back. He nearly pulled Wilson to the ground in the process, but the black pony took a step in exactly the right direction at exactly the right moment to give him a boost. A moment later, House found himself sitting behind Wilson.

"Here." Wilson handed House his cane.

"Thanks." House lay his cane across his lap. "What happens now?"

"What do you mean?"

"We're sort of parked here," said House. "Is there a first gear or something?"

"I thought you knew about horses. What happened to Percherons and _The Black Stallion_?"

Suddenly, the pony came alive, turning away from the trees so swiftly that Wilson let out a surprised yelp. He fell forward slightly, gripping the animal's sleek black mane with both hands. Behind him, an equally startled House grasped handfuls of Wilson's sweatshirt, then slid closer and wrapped his arms around Wilson's middle.

"I guess we're going now," said Wilson, as the pony began trotting across the grass.

"Keep your heels down," said House.

"Why?"

"Helps you balance."

"Is that something you learned from watching Youtube?"

"Don't be dumb," said House. "I read books."

* * *

House found himself using muscles he never knew he had just to keep from being flung to his death as the black pony carried them over the countryside. In front of him, he could feel Wilson struggling to hang on as loosely as possible without letting go. House felt like his own bones might shatter inside his body with the effort of staying upright.

"Don't squeeze with your legs!" House instructed with a shout. "She'll think you want her to go faster!"

"Somehow I don't think that will make a difference!" Wilson shouted back.

Eventually, House figured out how to use his forearms to grip Wilson's sides. He told Wilson to straighten his legs to keep from falling, and a strange but workable rhythm was established as the sound of the pony's hooves thumped against the hard, rolling ground.

"You okay back there?" Wilson managed to shout after fifteen minutes and what felt like five or six million painful miles.

"See where we're going yet?"

"No, but the horse seems to be doing just fine."

"Maybe she's one of those special horses," said House.

"You think she knows the way to the ocean?"

"I was thinking more like a magical horse. Like the kind they sell to wizards on the Black Market."

"Yeah, and maybe we're being followed by a magical hunting party of fairy warriors," said Wilson.

"Maybe," said House.

"No, really. I think we're being followed by a magical hunting party of fairy warriors."

Wilson pointed off to their right.

Sure enough, a band of riders was approaching over a slope of grass. They swarmed in like a pack of black wolves. They were riding horses much larger than the pony House and Wilson were riding, and the word _charger_ came unbidden to House's mind.

"You there!" one of the riders shouted.

"Oh, great," muttered House.

"House?" Wilson sounded panicked. "What do I do? I don't think she'll stop."

As soon as Wilson said that, the black pony slowed to a trot, then stopped, leaving House and Wilson aching and breathless--and completely helpless in the middle of nowhere as the mysterious riders closed in around them.

"My ass is killing me," grumbled House.

"Your ass might be the least of our problems at the moment," said Wilson.

House got a look at one of the riders as they approached and spotted a few trademarks that made him look twice: pointy ears, long hair, slanted black eyes, curved saddles-- _pointy ears_.

"Holy, elves," said House.

"You ride clumsily, my friend," said the rider who'd first shouted at them. "Your animal does not approve."

The rider approached on his horse. He was dressed in ornately patterned leather armor and silver and green jewelry. His long, black hair was plaited intricately, and his eyes shone like obsidian. Half of his sleek, fairy face was as pale as salt. The other half was tattooed black. And of course, there were the ears.

"This is definitely _somebody's_ hallucination," whispered House.

"Funny, I was thinking the same thing," whispered Wilson.

The rider walked his horse around the black pony, eyes locked on House and Wilson the entire time. Suspicious, gauging.

Finally, he must have seen something he approved of, because he bowed and touched his palm to his breastplate in greeting. "Come. You shall be our guests. The king is always eager to meet travelers from distant lands."

Before House or Wilson could protest, the leader of the riders gripped the reins of his horse and turned and galloped ahead. The other horses followed as if on autopilot, and so did the black pony, and House and Wilson were helpless to stop her.

"Sea king already?" said Wilson.

"I don't think so," said House.

"Maybe we should jump off," suggested Wilson.

"You don't think they'd figure that out pretty quickly?"

"I don't know about you, but that didn't sound like an invitation. It was more of an order."

"I think that's Foreman," said House.

"What?" Wilson looked around. "Where?"

"Our friendly escort." House pointed at the leader with the tattooed face.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Right, because he's so white and clearly _not_ of African descent. Also not really of _human_ descent. I can definitely see how he'd remind you of Foreman."

"Hey! Fairy dude! Got a name?"

The leader of the riders glanced back at them. "You may call me Eiriker."

"You see?" House nudged Wilson. "That's like New Age California speak for 'Eric.' Robert the Fox and now Eiriker? What if we run into a hag named Cameron-olga next?"

"Oh, no. Don't you dare turn this into a puzzle."

"That's a big coincidence."

"I'll pay you a thousand dollars to leave it alone, House. Now, can we please shut up before these guys decide we're worth killing?"

"Relax. They're feudal elves. They wouldn't kill us. Their king might, but they wouldn't."

"Feudal elves? What the hell is that? I don't even know what that is."

"You know. Like in Mirkwood. Or Rivendell."

"I think you're... completely full of bullshit," said Wilson. "And yet I feel strangely better now."

"Did I mention my ass is killing me?"


	5. Chapter 5

When they arrived at the home of the riders' so-called king, House wondered how many underground kings there actually were in this place. There was no castle, no guards, not even a fence. Only a large wooden door built into the shallow hillside.

House heard, or, rather, felt, Wilson take a deep, worried breath against him as they were escorted through the door and into torch-lit, dirt-scented darkness.

The door closed behind them with an ominous boom. House glanced back and saw a guard--much like the guard they'd met by the lake--securing the ancient yet elaborate system of bolts and chains with practiced motions.

"This is nice and creepy," whispered Wilson.

"I'm betting this hallucination will eventually carry us to the North Pole."

"You mean carry you. I'm still convinced I'm asleep in my office."

The enclosed tunnel amplified the horse's hooves as they clopped along the gritty floor. The long procession of horses and riders made its way slowly downward into what could only be described as an underground city. There were carved-out hollows everywhere, archways and tunnels and ladders and narrow bridges. House could hear a clear ringing sound coming from somewhere deep within--blacksmiths, maybe. Hammers and anvils.

Smells were strange, too. House could smell wood fires, blacksmith fires, cooking fires, metal and leather and oil, dirt--even flowers. And beneath that, a strange spiciness he couldn't identify.

Wilson apparently noticed it, too. "You smell that?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Smells familiar," said Wilson.

The tunnel wound down for what felt like miles. They passed strange, carved-out hollows where elves stood gathered around fires. They passed solemn figures hidden beneath hooded cloaks who glared up at them as they rode by.

One of the hooded figures looked up at House as he passed and made a point of staring at him, and House swore he saw dark, human eyes that reminded him of Wilson...

Suddenly, Eiriker whistled, and the line of horses stopped. Everyone dismounted except for House and Wilson.

House braced for what would happen next; they hadn't exactly worked out how to get _down_ from the horse yet, and his leg was killing him.

Eiriker approached and locked eyes with Wilson as a trio of riders arrived on the other side of the pony and fixed their gaze on House.

"No," said Wilson. "He needs help. His leg--"

Eiriker uttered a command in a language House couldn't understand, and the three riders reached up and helped House down from the pony with firm but gentle hands.

House found his footing on the gritty floor, trying to do as much of the work himself as he could despite the help. He braced an arm against the wall and arranged his cane beneath him.

"Thanks," he said, feeling a little more confident now that he could face the riders on his feet. For all their dark, intimidating looks, they stood a full foot shorter than him.

The riders turned and took their own horses by the bits. House watched as they made their way down the tunnel in a steady, soldiered fashion.

Wilson slid from the pony and landed with a thump beside House. He wobbled slightly.

"Okay?"

"Yeah," said Wilson breathlessly. "How's your leg?"

"Still hurts," said House. He fished a Vicodin out of his pocket and swallowed it.

"Any idea where we are?"

"Underground."

Wilson gave him a look.

House glanced up at the curved ceiling. "Looks Roman. Second or third century."

"Looks fake," said Wilson. "Disney World."

"Come, my friends." Eiriker waved at them. "They are awaiting our return, and you are no doubt hungry and tired from your journey."

"What about our horse?" asked Wilson.

"She will be well looked after."

* * *

House and Wilson followed Eiriker down the tunnel.

A swell of bright, cheerful noise greeted their ears as the light in the tunnel warmed and turned golden. The air became thick with the scent of sweet-smelling smoke, liquor and roasted meat, baked bread, apples and berries, honey and spices.

"Smells delicious," said Wilson.

"Sounds like a party," said House.

They turned a corner and found exactly that.

The room was low and wide, hazy with smoke that made House's eyes water. The floor was smoothly tiled--not the gritty dirt floor of the tunnels, but something a little more distinguished despite being littered in crumbs, garbage, spilled puddles of wine, and wiry-looking hounds sniffing at their masters' feet for scraps.

Three long tables formed a U-shape, and dozens of strange-looking people were seated all around them, all with the same sleek, fairy faces and pointed ears as Eiriker. Though, House noticed, these people looked different from the swarthy riders. Pale and slender and tall, the landed gentry of whatever insane fairy kingdom this was supposed to be.

House suddenly wished they'd brought Kutner or Chase along. Or even Thirteen. Surely she must have read enough fantasy books to give him some pointers. His knowledge of fairy tales extended only as far as his own anthropological curiosity. What he needed now was a full-fledged geek to act as his tour guide.

"That looks like the king," whispered Wilson. He pointed at the elf sitting at center table. "You think?"

"Yeah," said House, squinting. "Could be."

The king--if that's what he was, and he certainly looked the part--was not shouting boisterously or toasting with his court. Rather, he was sitting back in his chair, smiling serenely as he engaged in quiet conversation with the elf seated to his left. Instead of being blond like the rest of his court, he had thick, dark hair. His eyes were pale and glittering, and he was dressed in magnificent red-gold robes.

The noise in the room died down as Eiriker strode to the middle of the floor and took a knee.

"King Gwenan," he bowed. "I have returned."

"Welcome, Lord Eiriker," said the king, his voice sounding surprisingly light and gentle. He gestured for Eiriker to rise. "I trust you fared well in the outer land."

Eiriker nodded. "Yes, my lord."

"Who are your companions?" The king's gaze shifted to House and Wilson.

"They are guests, my lord. Encountered on the fields not far from here."

Several dozens pairs of fairy eyes were suddenly on House and Wilson.

House shifted where he stood, feeling decidedly underdressed.

"Are you minstrels?" asked the king.

House and Wilson answered at the same time.

"Yes."

"No."

Wilson elbowed House to shut him up. "Yes, we're musicians," he whispered.

"Can we also be astronauts?"

"Come," said the king. "Rest awhile at my table. Eat and drink your fill. If you are willing, perhaps you might entertain us with a song or two of your travels."

Everyone cheered, and goblets were raised around the room.

House glared at Wilson. "Nice going, Ace."

"Shut up and entertain them so we can get out of here," said Wilson.

"No way. I'm _eating and drinking my fill_ like the man says."

House crossed the floor and stepped between the tables, and room was made for him at the far end of the center one, several places down from the king.

Wilson quickly followed, and another seat was cleared for him.

Immediately, goblets of wine and large, hammered brass plates heaped in food were placed in front of them.

House was the first to dig in.

"Wait," whispered Wilson.

House shook his head, mouth already packed with meat he'd just torn off a drumstick with his teeth. "Don't even. I know what you're going to say. _Don't eat it, it's poison_.'"

"That's not what I was going to say."

"Well, _enchanted_ then. You're afraid I'll end up drugged and sleep for the next thousand years."

"I was thinking more like Honi the Circle-drawer. Look at these people, House."

"They look pretty harmless to me."

Both of Wilson's eyebrows shot up.

"Listen," said House. "I just spent a weekend puking my guts out. I spent two days hunting you down. I dug you out from under a tree. I rowed across a lake. I climbed a hill. I rode a horse bareback for ten miles. I'm fucking hungry, all right?" House gulped some of his wine then gestured at Wilson's goblet. "Try it, it's pretty good."

Wilson sighed and, mostly out of politeness given the fact that he was seated at the king's table with several dozens pairs of slanted elf eyes watching him, picked up his goblet with both hands and took a sip of wine.

His eyes immediately watered eyes as the strong drink bloomed fire in his chest. "Wow."

"Yeah," grinned House knowingly, mouth full of food as he took another drink from his own goblet.

Suddenly, the room erupted in laughter and shouts, and Wilson nearly upended his goblet all over the front of his shirt as the table jerked beneath him and several elves rose from their seats.

"It's decided!" someone cried, and at once, the elves were approaching House and Wilson's end of the table.

"Come! You must sing us a song!"

"Tell us your instrument of choice, and we will bring one for you to play!"

"Yes, my friends," said the king, leaning over to smile at them. "You must play. Tell us of your travels in strange, foreign lands."

Wilson gave House a nervous look: _I don't play._

"Follow my lead," said House.

He wiped his mouth of greasy meat, swigged some more wine, then rose from the table.

Wilson followed, and the room erupted in another chorus of cheers.

One of the elves placed two wooden stools in the middle of the room. Another approached carrying two, small primitive-looking harps. One was triangular, shaped like an inequality bracket. The other was L-shaped like the masts of a cable-stayed bridge.

Without hesitating, House grabbed the simpler, bracket-shaped harp and plunked himself down on one of the stools.

When the elf tried to hand Wilson the second harp, House waved him away. "He sings backup."

"You really think you can pull this off?" asked Wilson nervously.

"Sure. Why not?" House shrugged cheerfully.

"I'm not singing the theme to Rawhide," said Wilson. "I don't care if they turn you into a frog."

"Your faith in my musical abilities is so reassurring," said House.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but these people look like they're capable of rioting at a Stones concert."

"All we have to do is be convincing," said House.

"And then what? We play gigs for _this_ guy the rest of our lives?"

"Maybe we'll get to be immortal," said House.

"Maybe we'll get to be lunch," said Wilson.

Wilson sighed and watched House fiddle with the harp as the room grew quiet around them.

"Can you even play that thing?" asked Wilson.

"I have no idea."

"Oh, good. I can't actually sing, either. I'm sure we'll be very entertaining."

"Relax. They don't want Chopin on catgut. They want storytelling. Minstrel-ing. Whatever."

"Well, it's got strings that I assume are meant to be plucked. It can't be that different from a guitar."

House gave him a look. "Remind me to never let you touch my guitar."

"Are you ready, my friends?" asked the king, interrupting their hushed argument.

"Yes," said House before Wilson could say otherwise.

He raked the harp strings experimentally with his thumb and forefinger. The resulting trill of notes seemed to light up the room, and Wilson had to swallow a sigh; even if it was a primitive harp being held by a novice (which, despite his claims, House obviously _wasn't_ ), the sound it made was beautiful.

House shifted in his seat a bit, then carefully plucked out the five tones from _Close Encounters of the Third Kind_.

"Sound of Silence," said House.

"You're kidding, right?" Wilson shot him a nervous look.

"Just sing along. You weren't _that_ stoned the last time you heard the lyrics, so I know you remember them."

House strummed a friendly chord, then opened his mouth to sing--

Suddenly, there was a crash and a shout, and Wilson found himself knocked backwards as two of Eiriker's riders and two court elves tumbled into them, clawing and kicking and shouting, faces bloodied.

House hollered angrily, hands instinctively cupping over his leg as he hit the floor. The harp was knocked out of his hands by one of the elves and broke into pieces.

Eiriker leapt forward, along with two of the King's guards, and they rushed into the brawl to break up the four elves.

Things ended as quickly as they had begun. The quarreling elves were pulled apart, and Eiriker's riders were ordered out of the room. The bloodied elves were escorted down another corridor.

Eiriker glanced down at House and Wilson where they lay on the floor. He opened his mouth as if to say something to them when, suddenly, one of the court elves knocked into him and spilled his goblet of wine across the front of Eiriker's armored tunic.

It was so obviously not an accident that Wilson had to bite down a laugh.

Eiriker hissed and grabbed the offending elf by the collar.

"No, wait!" Wilson jumped to his feet and pushed himself between the two elves to prevent bloodshed.

He wound up misjudging his own momentum and knocked the court elf to the floor.

Once again, the room fell silent.

Wilson stood stunned, and so did Eiriker. House was nearby, still sitting on the floor, hands on his thighs, blinking helplessly.

Several elves rushed forward and helped the fallen guest to his feet. He waved away their fussing hands as he stood. He licked a bloody upper lip and frowned at his now-torn robes.

He turned to Wilson, and his upturned fairy eyes were fierce.

"You."

Wilson took an instinctive step back. "I didn't--"

"What is your name?"

"Don't tell him," said House.

"It would be rude to take advantage of our hospitality without telling us your name," said the offended elf. "Just as it would be inconvenient for you and your companion to be rendered headless, or so I'm guessing."

"James. My names is James."

House hung his head and groaned. "Great."

The elf lord smirked. "Tell me, James. Are you accustomed to standing in the way of another man's sword?"

"No, I just--"

"Do you not realize that such a gesture is considered rude among my people?"

"I just didn't see any reason for you to fight over something as silly as a spilled drink," said Wilson quickly, his voice rising. "That's all, I swear."

House put his head in his hands. "Good god, Wilson. Shut up already."

The elf lord arched a delicate eyebrow. "Really? Then perhaps you'd like to champion his name?"

"Champion his name?" Wilson blinked before he realized what the elf lord meant. "Oh, no, no, no--"

"I'm sure you're used to defending your beliefs, such as they are, if you've lived thus long."

"Nice going, Gandhi," said House.

"A duel, then," said the elf lord smugly.

"That won't be necessary," said Wilson.

"Oh, but I think it will be."

"House?"

"Can't help you now, Jimmy," said House. "His buddies ruined my song. I'm biased."

"What goes on?" demanded the king suddenly, rising from his seat to gaze over the throng of angry elves.

* * *

"House, I can't fight this guy." Wilson glanced nervously over his shoulder at his opponent.

"Sure you can," said House. "You're bigger than he is."

"He's taller."

"You went to Penn. You're smarter."

"That's a stupid argument," said Wilson. "These guys don't even know what college is."

"You took fencing," said House.

"One semester, and I took an incomplete because I was paranoid about hurting my hands." Wilson fiddled with the sword Eiriker had given him. It was awkward, oversized and heavy.

"This isn't fencing," said House.

"No kidding," said Wilson.

"Relax. This guy probably hasn't been fighting that long, anyway. He's too pretty. He doesn't have enough scars."

"Yeah, either that, or he's amazingly talented, heals immediately thanks to his immortality, and is a master swordsman who will cut my head off in three seconds."

"You're such a pessimist."

They both looked up when they heard an echoing clank. The elf lord had unsheathed his sword and was twirling it sharply in one hand as if it were a toy baton.

"Great," sighed Wilson.

"Stay away from anything sharp that's aimed at your head, and you'll be fine."

"Wow, thanks so much, Professor."

"Relax." House's hands settled on Wilson's shoulders. "It's a duel. You let him knock you down a few times, humiliate you in front of everyone. He gets his pride back, you get a few bruises, and we can go home."

"Home," nodded Wilson. "You mean it? No traipsing across Rohan in search of your answers?"

"Sure," said House. "Anyway, I don't traipse."

"Just remember you said that."

"Just try not to embarrass the name of oncologist."

Wilson took another breath, then turned and faced his opponent. The floor cleared quickly and the room fell silent as their duel began.

All told, it took about fifteen seconds.

The moment Wilson stepped into the open floor, the elf lord pounced. The blade of his sword was aimed directly for Wilson's head. Wilson raised his own sword with reflexes he didn't know he possessed. He flinched at the first clang of blades, gasped at the second, and stumbled at the third.

The elf lord lunged again, sword swinging, and that's when something seemed to come over Wilson. He could feel it, a strange sense of confidence he could never have anticipated, and suddenly, he knew he would win. He knew this was easy.

Wilson slid smoothly out of harm's way, turning with uncanny warrior grace, and extended his own sword as the elf lord rushed him.

Gravity took care of the rest.

When Wilson blinked back to reality, he was greeted by the sight of an elf lord draped across his legs. Skewered through the gut. Dead.

Warm blood bathed Wilson's left hand.

He'd won.

* * *

House sat Wilson down on the nearest bench.

"You okay?" he asked.

Wilson was staring at the smear of blood on the floor where the elf lord had fallen. His brow glistened with nervous sweat, and his eyes were dark and wild. Ten feet away, the body of the elf he'd killed was being hoisted into the arms of his friends. All around them, the room buzzed with conversation.

"Not really," Wilson admitted.

House located the nearest goblet of wine, not caring who it belonged to, and brought it to Wilson's face. "Drink."

Wilson tried to take the goblet. He hesitated and squeezed his hands into tight fists.

"I can't. I'm shaking too much."

House tilted the cup and helped him drink. Wilson coughed and sputtered but managed to swallow some of the strong, soothing wine. House sat the cup aside and checked Wilson's pulse, then stilled, narrowing his eyes.

"What's wrong?" asked Wilson, seeing House's expression.

"Your pulse is normal," said House.

Wilson pressed his own fingers to his neck in disbelief.

"House, I'm a wreck."

"I know."

"How--?"

"Here, you're bleeding." He thrust Wilson's arm up. Wilson got the hint and pressed his shirt cuff to the gash on his brow.

"What are we gonna do? These people are pissed."

"I'm working on it," said House. He glanced around at the dinner guests. Most were gathered in groups, whispering suspiciously while occasionally flashing angry glances in their direction. Some elves were rushing back and forth on slippered feet. A few were openly glaring at them.

"I killed him," said Wilson. "They aren't going to let us get away with that."

"I said I'm working on it."

"You can't run with your leg, and I'm not killing anyone else."

"You didn't kill him. He just sort of fell on you."

At that moment, Eiriker and his band of riders marched into the room and surrounded House and Wilson.

"Oh, great," said House.

"Take them away," ordered Eiriker.

"Are you kidding? Wilson just saved your life."

"I beg you to come willingly. I do not wish to harm you."

Wilson rose to his feet, sleeve still pressed to the gash on his brow.

"This is ridiculous," muttered House as he was nudged toward the exit. "Ow! Watch it, will ya?"

Eiriker took House's cane, forcing Wilson to become House's crutch as the two of them were escorted out of the room and down a dark, winding tunnel. After a while, House could smell urine and metal and blood and knew they were headed someplace decidedly less than cozy.

They emerged in a dark, damp corridor lined with barred cells.

"This looks like a dungeon," said Wilson. "Can I start panicking now?"

They were taken to the first cell and pushed none too gently inside. Eiriker closed and locked the door.

"You're not going to shackle us?" asked House. "Feed us to the trolls in the basement?"

"Would you like me to?"

House grinned. "You are _so_ Foreman."

Eiriker raised a curious eyebrow but said nothing. He handed his keys to a nearby guard, then passed House's cane through the bars. Then he turned and followed his men back upstairs.

"This is your fault," said Wilson once they were alone.

House was hardly surprised to hear him say that, but a nice, familiar argument with Wilson seemed better than wallowing in a dungeon, so he took the bait.

"How do you figure?" House gripped the bars and let his forehead rest against the cool metal.

"We wouldn't be here if you hadn't stolen that boat."

"The boat had nothing to do with it," said House. "You cooked us dinner."

"So because I can cook, we're locked in a dungeon?"

"This isn't a dungeon."

"Of course it is!"

"If it were a dungeon, there'd be torture," said House. "Oh wait, you're here."

"Oh ho! Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, my name is Gregory House, and being an ass is my business!"

"I'll tell you what you can do with your obscure pop culture references."

"You're the one who insisted we go fishing in the first place," said Wilson.

"We weren't fishing," said House. "I told you."

"Right. Because that would have been illegal."

"This is fun," said House. "Can we do this all night?"

Wilson sighed and rubbed his sore brow. "Sorry."

"How's your head?" asked House.

"I think it's stopped bleeding. How's your leg?"

"Still hurts."

"Well, at least there's one thing normal around here."

* * *

There were no windows in their cell, but House could sense night approaching by the slow and steady tapering off of sounds that were coming from upstairs. People were going home, he guessed. Back to their tree houses, transforming into animals--whatever it was that elfin folk did after an evening of drinking and fighting in an underground hollow.

Wilson had taken to sitting on the floor against the far wall and was now asleep. He looked peaceful, which was amazing given their current situation, though at least the floor was dry and free of obvious bloodstains. It was also warm--probably, House guessed by the smell of smoke and the endless ringing of hammers, from the all the forging and smithying going on beneath their feet.

House himself could not sleep. He lingered near the bars, trying to catch a glimpse of the guards that occasionally paced by, cataloguing what details he could to keep from being bored. The biggest guard was a drunk who always carried a goblet in his hand, and the shortest guard was female. Another guard had a missing arm, and the fourth guard looked decidedly human with flashing dark eyes that made House feel more uncomfortable than he wanted to admit. Elves and ogres he could handle--but humans creeping around? House didn't like the idea of mixing his realities together.

After a while, a shadow descended from above, and low, scuffing footsteps disrupted the silence.

"Wilson," whispered House.

Wilson blinked awake.

"Somebody's coming," said House.

The footsteps grew louder until a familiar outline appeared--leather armor, long plaited hair, a tattooed face.

House rolled his eyes in disappointment. "Thought you were somebody important."

"Are you both all right?" asked Eiriker.

"Still working out the best corner to pee in," said House.

"Do you even care?" asked Wilson from the floor. "You put us here."

"Of course he cares," said House. "We make better sport if we're healthy. Or better eating, if you're that kind of elf. Just remember: I'm mostly dark meat. He's mostly white meat."

"I apologize for the way Finvarr treated you," said Eiriker.

"Who's Finvarr?"

"The one your friend killed."

Wilson was on his feet immediately. He approached the bars. "I didn't mean to kill anyone."

"The laws of your world do not apply here," said Eiriker. "It was a deserved death, however you may feel about it. Finvarr was a low and base creature who died shamefully. All the same, I apologize that you were forced into such a situation as is unlike your nature."

"What do you care about Wilson's nature?" asked House.

Eiriker glared at him, clearly exasperated. "You have yet to ask the right questions, human. And you do not pay enough attention to your friend's manner."

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Wilson. "What about my manner?"

"The heart you fight with is not your own. Surely you must have noticed by now. It belongs to another, though how you received it, I cannot say."

"My... heart?"

"Get real," said House.

"I know the warrior to whom it once belonged," said Eiriker. "It was his horse you were riding across the plain, and it was his will commanded the horse. I don't know what became of him, but I have been watching you since you arrived, and now that I've seen his manner in the method of your killing, I know it to be true."

"Wilson didn't have anyone's manner," said House. "The guy fell on him. You want _elan vital_ , buy some chakra crystals."

Wilson gripped the bars next to House. "What's going to happen to us in here?"

"You will be killed," said Eiriker.

House frowned. "What, just like that?"

"They will want to make examples of you. Punish you. Your deaths will not be swift." Eiriker looked solemnly at his hands. "I am sorry."

"What about the king?" asked Wilson. "I thought he liked us."

"It is not his affair," said Eiriker. "His only concern is his court, to insure the preservation of his throne."

Suddenly, House slapped the bars of the cell. "Of course!"

Wilson and Eiriker both looked at him.

"Cuddy is the king," said House. "It makes perfect sense. This guy's Foreman. Cuddy's the king. I can't believe I didn't pick up on it before."

"What are you talking about?" asked Wilson.

"King Gwenan? _Gwenan_ means honeybee. _Melissa_ also means honeybee, only in Greek. This place is like a mirror, don't you get it? Like a freaky, fun house mirror. And everyone we know is here. We just have to figure out who everyone is. We've already got Foreman and Cuddy and Chase."

Wilson opened his mouth to protest.

"I wonder if that guy you killed was someone we know," said House. "Does Mike Tritter still live in Jersey?"

"House, I didn't kill anyone we know. Because we don't know anyone here. Because these people aren't fantastic versions of _our_ people. Because this place is insane, and _not real_ , and all I'd like to do at this point is go home."

Wilson sighed and turned to Eiriker. "When are we... scheduled to die?"

"At dawn," said Eiriker.

* * *

Wilson counted the fifth shiver that House managed to disguise as a cough.

"Cold?"

"Nope," said House.

They were sitting opposite each other--Wilson with his legs outstretched, House with his knees bent, elbows resting on top of them.

The dungeon was quiet. One guard remained, snoozing at the far end of the corridor. The party upstairs had long ago ended. Only the faintest clang of hammers could be heard in the deepest part of the underground.

"Bronze," said House.

"What?" Wilson looked up.

"The hammering. It's a bronze works."

Wilson listened. "How can you tell?"

"Fires have gone down, but the hammering hasn't."

Wilson was already nodding. "And you can't heat bronze, you can only hammer it."

"Bronze doesn't sound like iron," said House.

"What do you think they're making?"

"Toyotas," said House. He tipped his head back with a sigh. "Giant, bronze Toyotas."

"I wonder if they're actually going to execute us."

House coughed again.

"Are you sure you're not cold?" asked Wilson.

"Pretty sure," said House. He folded his arms across his chest.

"You'll let me know if you are, though."

House nodded, even as he fake-coughed again.

"Because I wouldn't want you to have to pretend to be warm just to make me feel like you're not pretending to be warm," said Wilson.

House looked at him. "That makes no sense."

"Whatever. See if I care if you freeze."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Wilson crawled over to House and sat next to him.

"I'm fine," protested House.

"Well, I'm not. Move over."

"You just want an excuse to keep me warm without feeling guilty about it."

"Yeah, yeah. Shut up and stop pretending you hate it when I fuss over your personal comfort." Wilson settled back and folded his sweatshirt-clad arms over his stomach.

House looked down at where their arms were touching. "God, you're like an electric space heater."

"Think it's the heart?"

"If we weren't sitting in a dungeon hewn by bloodthirsty elves, I would suggest you might be delirious with fever. So... maybe."

"I feel fine," shrugged Wilson. He pulled back his sleeve to check his watch, but of course it was missing. "Any idea what time it is?"

House ignored the question. "What's worse? Being burned alive or freezing to death?"

"Good god, House. I just want to know the time."

House looked at him expectantly.

Wilson sighed. "It depends."

"On what?"

"On what you mean by burning or freezing. I'd probably pick burning."

"You're only saying that because this dungeon is cold," said House. "If we were trapped in a volcano, you'd pick freezing."

"No, _you're_ only saying that because you're terrified of this place because you don't know what's going on, and clinging to pathological stereotypes is your way of coping."

"I'd pick freezing," said House.

"Now you're being a jerk."

"You'd seriously go with burning? That doesn't make any sense. Unless you think asphyxiation will kill you first."

"I just don't like the idea of dying because of the cold," said Wilson. "It has nothing to with the pain. I would rather burn."

"Why?"

"Because with cold it's just... cold. It's a stupid way to die."

"And with fire, at least _something_ is killing you."

"Exactly."

"I still think I'd rather freeze."

"I'd rather play Super Mario," said Wilson. "Lucky we don't always get want we want."

"Lucky," said House.

He suppressed another cough, and a shudder rippled through him that Wilson could feel.

"You still cold? Here." Wilson draped an arm around House's shoulder.

"I'm fine."

"Stop it, okay?"

"Stop what?"

"I'm not going to let you freeze." Wilson tried to pull him closer.

"I'm not in the mood for cuddling," said House.

"It's not cuddling. It's sharing body heat so we can get some sleep."

"So I can be comfortable before I die at dawn? That's thoughtful of you." House shrugged Wilson's arm away.

"If we're dying in a few hours anyway, then nobody's going to care that you slept with your best friend."

Wilson pulled House to him again, this time with force, until he had House locked safely under his wing. House grumbled at first, then finally relaxed enough to arrange his leg into a more comfortable position.

"I think they try to work this scene into every sword and sorcery film," said House. "Just before the hero and the hot babe in the corset get it on."

"You're not wearing a corset," Wilson pointed out.

House touched Wilson's arm curiously. "You are really, really warm, you know that? It's sort of freaking me out."

"Try to sleep, House."

* * *

Wilson woke in the dark dungeon, surrounded by silence and the steady thumping of his own heartbeat in his ears.

He could sense it was close to dawn, though he wasn't sure how he knew that. Something in his internal clockwork.

Maybe it was his heart, he thought. Ever since hearing Eiriker's strange words, he'd become aware of every heartbeat and inhalation of air, of his emotional reaction to everything around him--the temperature, sounds, House, their supposed impending deaths. He'd spent a good part of the night slogging through old memories, precious moments from his past, humiliations, heartaches, devastation--all to test himself, to see if there was anything that felt out of the ordinary.

Eiriker had said "heart," and "heart" could mean a lot of things.

Had he been referring to the actual, physical organ? Or did he mean something more philosophical? Wilson's sense of compassion, maybe. His capacity to love. His capacity for hate. His blood-brain barrier. His biorhythms. The fact that he was an Air sign.

Wilson sighed and looked down at House, who was snoring lightly against his shoulder. He didn't want to wake him, but if this strange new sense of timing was right and it really was dawn, then the guards might show up at any moment to haul them to their dooms.

He decided to compromise and nudged House gently.

"House. Do you think it's dawn yet?"

House mumbled.

"House?"

"How'm I s'posed to know?"

There was a clank, and House was instantly awake.

The door to their cell was unlocked and two of Eiriker's riders strode in. Wordlessly, they hauled House and Wilson to their feet.

House stumbled in pain.

"Careful--his cane," said Wilson.

"He won't need it," said one of the guards.

"He needs it to walk."

"He won't be walking for much longer," said the second guard.

The cane was left behind, and House and Wilson found their wrists bound by rough rope. They were pushed out of the cell and down the corridor.

The guard stationed at the end of the corridor unlocked a door for them, and they passed through it and made their way up a new passage with damp walls and dripping-wet ceilings.

The guards had to half-drag House, who couldn't walk on his own and let out a breathy half-cry every step. Eventually, one of the guards slipped an arm around him and helped him walk, and it became clear to Wilson that, despite their gruff attitude, they didn't like seeing him in pain. Soon, both guards were helping him along, step by step, pausing every few minutes so House could catch his breath.

The new tunnel was leading them skyward, toward the surface. Wilson could feel air moving. He could hear thunder in the distance.

"Waves," said House.

"The ocean?" asked Wilson.

"Too small--" House let out a yelp as he tripped over the uneven ground. The guards caught him quickly.

After that, House didn't say anything as they ascended toward the surface. His face paled with pain. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead and upper lip. The rumbling sound became louder and less distinct.

Finally, they emerged into bright, blinding daylight. House flinched, and Wilson sneezed and lifted his hands to cover his eyes.

The sky was smeared gray-white. The ground was blanketed in green grass that brushed against their knees.

There was no ocean. The rumbling sound was the sound of waves washing against the shore of a large lake. Pewter-colored chop troubled the water's surface as a cold, sharp wind blew. Dark hills loomed in the distance, skirted in mist.

A group of elves stood waiting near the lake's shore. Wilson recognized a few of them as the friends of the elf he'd killed. They looked eerily pale in the light of day. Their eyes were as black as tacks. Their elegant robes were no longer rich and lustrous in the warm glow of torch light but glassy and wan under a cold, unforgiving sky.

The elf king was there, too, standing several yards away beneath an elegant tent. His guards and advisors surrounded him, their eyes distant and solemn.

House and Wilson were dragged down to the beach to face the group of accusing elves. A long, slender boat sat nearby, half on the beach and half in the water, its white hull licked by the waves

Wilson eyed House, who was wobbling to stay upright while keeping his weight off his bad leg.

"You okay?" he asked quietly.

House nodded even though he was clearly in pain.

One of the elves was armed with an ancient-looking scroll. He unrolled it and began reciting something in a language Wilson couldn't understand. His voice sounded strange in a way that had nothing to do with the alien words he was speaking--his timbre seemed ghostlike, chilled to the bone. His words echoed across the water and were drowned out by the sloshing waves and whipping wind.

The language barrier made Wilson not want to listen, despite the fact that this was obviously some sort of execution ritual or sacrificial ceremony that meant his life.

Beside him, House was staring at the ground. Wilson couldn't tell if he was lost in thought or mentally diverting pain.

"You think they're really going to kill us?" Wilson whispered.

"Don't know," said House.

"You're supposed to be figuring out how to get us out of this," said Wilson, trying to make his words sounded lighthearted. "I'm the sick one, remember?"

"I'm too busy thinking about where I'm going to find my next Big Mac."

Wilson smiled.

Nearby, the elf finished reading the scroll.

"I don't suppose there's a chance you understood any of that?" asked Wilson.

"He says you're going to die on the water."

"How the hell do you know that?"

"It's in Breton," said House.

Wilson stared at him.

"What? I was bored. I had a library card."

"Can you speak it?"

"What good will that do?"

"I don't know. Maybe it will impress them. Give us some leverage."

"I think it might make things worse," said House.

"Why?"

"Because they obviously don't _speak_ Breton. They only write it. It's sacred to them. If I started babbling in their sacred language, they might cut off my head."

"Yes, _or_ they could be hugely impressed, deem you a golden demigod, and then we could go home."

"Do I really look like a golden demigod to you?" asked House. "Even if I did, they'd probably sacrifice you to this beach in my honor."

"It looks like they're planning on doing that, anyway."

"What do you want me to do about it?"

"Give them something, House."

"Like what? Cuddy? Sorry, I forgot to stuff her down the front of my pants before we left."

"You can't tell me you haven't figured out a way out of this. Not the way your head works."

"There isn't anything to figure out. We're going to die."

"This is supposed to be a hallucination!"

"There's no way both of us are hallucinating," said House.

"What, so one of us is going to wake up and the other one isn't?"

"If you kick the bucket, I'll get my head X-rayed."

"House, I promise you, if they kill me, I'll be dead. I am not part of your hallucination."

"If you're not part of it, then I'm not really hallucinating."

"I am _not_ dying on a beach in the middle of Narnia at the hands of a bunch of deranged elves!"

"And I'm _sorry_ I haven't come up with any brilliant ploys to save your gorgeous ass, but my leg fucking _hurts_."

"Where's your Vicodin?" asked Wilson.

House sighed. "I'm all out."

Wilson looked down at the rope around his wrists. He tugged at the knot experimentally. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw House stoop slightly to rub at his thigh.

Wilson opened his mouth to speak. He didn't know what he was going to say.

"House, I--"

He didn't get the chance to finish. Grim-faced elves approached and took him by the arms. They pushed him toward the water.

"Wait," said House. "You can't--" He stepped forward to stop the elves. His hands were tied in front of him, however, and that combined with his bad leg threw him hopelessly off-balance. He stumbled and landed in the soft sand with a grunt.

"Take him to the water," ordered the elf who'd read the scroll. "Leave his friend for the banshee."

"House!"

House watched helplessly from the sand as Wilson was hauled down the beach.

Suddenly, strong hands pulled House to his feet. House looked up and saw Eiriker; his night-and-day face was unflinching.

"Stand," said the elf.

House found his footing and gestured toward Wilson. "Help him."

"I cannot. And you would be wise to remain silent."

"You said it wasn't his heart," said House. "That's insane and goes against everything I've ever been taught, but I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt since you have pointy ears and I can't remember taking any weird drugs lately. Please help him."

"That he may live to watch you die? I cannot help both of you."

"So you won't help either of us? What kind of backwards logic is that?"

"It is the logic of night and day," said Eiriker.

"Yeah? Well elves are _stupid_. Just so you know where I stand."

"And humans are resilient, are they not?"

"So does that mean Wilson's going to be okay?"

"Silence!" someone else shouted, and House felt a sickening pain in his leg as he was struck with something hard and sharp.

His vision clouded white-hot, and before he could manage to cry out, he fell back to the sand. The last thing he saw before blackness surrounded him was Wilson staring back from the boat, looking stunned and helpless.


	6. Chapter 6

He woke to the feeling of the wind playing gently across his face and the sound of someone singing.

Startled by that revelation, he immediately fought an internal battle with his brain as the seemingly innocent observation unwound itself.

Probably just the wind in the trees, he thought.

Or maybe it really was someone singing. An entire chorus of people, for all House knew. Or elves. Or crickets. Or the grass itself, tickling his cheek where he lay, hands bound, head and leg throbbing in pain.

That's great, thought House with a sigh. The grass was singing a lullaby to him. Fanfuckingtastic conclusion.

House groaned and rolled onto his back.

At least the ground was comfortable, he thought. It least it was _real_.

House remembered Wilson and immediately twisted his body to sit upright. His eyes watered from the pain that knifed up his leg. And a second pain, too, this one stemming from a bruise on his left ankle from where he'd been struck by whatever elf had knocked him down.

They'd taken Wilson away. But to do what? Drown him?

House scanned his surroundings. Before him lay a field of high, green grass surrounded by trees in every direction. There was no sign of the lake.

The sky above was the same smeary gray as before. It was still daylight, but House could tell that wouldn't last much longer. The world was already starting to turn blue. He wondered how long he'd been unconscious. The entire day? Two days? What about Wilson?

They haven't killed him yet, thought House. Eiriker had said their deaths would be slow, but House wasn't dead yet, so that meant something else was supposed to happen first. But what? Were they leaving him out here to die of thirst or starvation? That seemed plausible, but somehow, House didn't think it was what the elves had in mind.

House brought his knees to his chest, propped his hands on them for leverage, then pulled his hands free of the burning, biting rope. It took several long minutes, but at last he was free. He flung the rope aside with satisfaction.

He ran his hands through his hair and searched his mind, trying to assemble this new puzzle.

The elves had said he was to be left with the banshee. House had called Cuddy a banshee hundreds of times, so what did that mean, exactly?

It was getting dark now. The trees were getting harder to see, and the grass glowed eerily in the sunless twilight.

House jumped when he heard someone whisper nearby.

A woman's voice, soft yet distinct, flitting past his ear before he had a chance to make out the words.

He heard it again a moment later, just as quickly, shifting in the other direction.

House swallowed, suddenly dreading nighttime for reasons he couldn't explain. Primitive reasons that tore his head apart and stirred up his thoughts until they broiled irrationally, maddeningly.

"Get a grip," he muttered to himself.

"Aern," whispered a voice.

House closed his eyes and cupped his hands over his ears.

Sensory overload, he told himself. That's all it is.

"Aern, where are you?"

"Who the hell is Aern?" House asked loudly. There was no answer.

Suddenly, House's breath caught. What felt like fingers closed around his neck. Soft, warm fingers, delicate yet strong. A woman's fingers. But there was nothing there. Only the wind and grass and darkening sky.

House gasped as he was choked again by the unseen force. He clawed at his neck to free himself.

"Aern, come back to us," said the voice again.

"Please... Aern... please..." said another voice.

"Where are you?" asked a third.

"Aern..."

"Shut up!" bellowed House, knocking away the strangling hold with the force of his voice.

He lay back gasping in the grass and lay his hands protectively over his throat.

He closed his eyes, thinking he'd beaten it. Soon, however, the voices began to stir again, asking the same questions, whispering longingly, louder and louder, until they wove together to form a high-pitched sound that could only be described as shrieking. It filled the air, and yet it was silent, and House soon realized it wasn't in the air at all but inside his own head like the worst case of tinnitus imaginable.

He abandoned protecting his throat and covered his ears.

He tried shouting over the sound to drown out the horrible shrieking and wailing, but the louder he screamed, the louder the shrieking became, until it was too loud to even stand. House rolled onto his stomach, tears rolling down his cheeks, hands clutched over his ears as the horrible, deafening, isolating sound drove through him.

The soft grass tickled his eyelids, and his tears fell hot onto the blades.

 _There is no source for this sound_ , he thought. _Sound can't come from nothing_.

The shrieking died down a little.

House stilled, trembling.

He was too afraid to lower his hands from his ears, but that very simple thought had worked.

 _Sound can't come from nothing_ , he repeated it. _Something has to vibrate, and there's nothing here. There's nothing to make the sound, so it can't be real_.

The shrieking faded in small increments, quieter and quieter. House lowered his hands slowly from his ears and let the air blow across them.

He could hear the rustling leaves. He could hear distant birds.

Nothing could explain the shrieking, he knew, and soon the shrieking faded entirely.

It was dark by the time House opened his eyes, blinking at the blackness that enveloped him and relishing the delicate, ambient silence. Crickets, frogs, faraway birds. Soft breezes in the trees.

So that was a banshee, he thought.

He smiled, exhausted, and let himself drift off to sleep.

* * *

"You're all right, my friend," said the familiar voice.

House's mind climbed out of sleep slowly as if it were a ladder leading toward consciousness. His first thought was that the voice he'd just heard sounded exactly like Wilson.

"Here, drink this."

"What is it?" House asked, eyes still closed. If Wilson wanted to get him to drink something, he needed to be more persuasive than that.

A soft, leathery pouch was placed within reach.

" _Vi_ ," answered the voice

House wondered if his ears were still being kicked around by the banshee. Why was Wilson speaking in riddles? What the hell was _vi_?

House slowly opened his eyes and blinked at the sky. He was hoping a clear, familiar face might come into focus, but instead, he saw a dark shadow inside a hooded cloak.

"Nice hood," said House. "What's vi?"

"What if I told you it was pig urine? Drink it and stop being obstinate."

House rolled onto his elbow. He took the leather pouch from the hooded stranger and drank. What might have been pig urine turned out to be cool, sweet wine.

"Who are you?" asked House, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He handed the pouch back to the stranger.

"You are very lucky to be alive," said the stranger.

House groaned. His leg was throbbing. His head hurt.

"Boy, I sure feel lucky. _Who_ are you?"

"She would have killed you. Had the moon been full, we would not be talking now."

"You mean the banshee?"

"Yes, of course. Can you stand?"

House managed to roll until his knees were solidly beneath him. He carefully stood. "Ow."

"Can you walk?"

"I feel like Kakofonous Dischord," said House.

The stranger slung the leather pouch over his shoulder and slipped his arm under House's to steady him. House pushed forward, letting his knees crack as he took his first few steps.

"Not gonna tell me who you are?" asked House.

"Would it matter if I did?" asked the stranger.

"You remind me of a guy I know."

"Is that so?"

House stopped and turned. He brushed the helpful stranger's hand away and looked past the shadowy hood.

For a moment, he thought he was looking straight at James Wilson.

The shadows were falling at all the right angles, the eyebrows were the same, and the eyes were the right color. His face was slightly sharper than Wilson's, and his cheeks and nose were burnished and weathered, but it was an eerie match.

House stared until he realized he was staring. Then he looked away.

The stranger smiled sympathetically. "You seem to be standing well on your own now. Perhaps we should try walking next."

House nodded absently and started across the field. He had to hop slightly without his cane, and the movement was exhausting, but he pressed on. It felt good to push himself, he realized. He wasn't used to anything feeling good lately.

The stranger in the hood walked alongside House, keeping a respectful distance but plainly there if House needed help. It was oddly encouraging, and House found himself moving more easily because of it. The stranger was clanging with each step, too, House noticed, and a quick glance down revealed a sword hidden inside the folds of the long, dark cloak he was wearing.

"Something you find interesting?" the stranger asked, catching House staring.

"Nope," said House. "You got a name?"

"Of course I do. Do not expect me to tell you what it is, though."

House smiled.

Guy even talks like Wilson, he thought.

* * *

"He's there," the stranger pointed.

They'd reached the lake, deserted now. The elves and the king were gone. The tiny boat the elves had taken Wilson in was sitting on the beach, upside down and propped on a rock to keep the waves from carrying it away.

"Looks like a raft," said House, gazing across the misty lake at the tiny rectangle where the stranger was pointing.

The water was calm, a blue-violet mirror, delicate and serene compared to yesterday's angry, pewter chop.

"One night on those waters may have done too much damage," said the stranger. "If your friend's not dead already, another night will surely kill him."

House chortled. "Don't let me get my hopes up or anything."

"Come, it's almost midday. We must hurry before the fog rises."

They made their way down to the shore. The stranger darted ahead over clumps off grass and rushes like a regular Aragorn while House did his best to keep up. When they reached the beach, they overturned the tiny boat and pushed it into the water. Or, rather, the stranger pushed it. House mostly watched, doing his best to help when he could despite his leg.

House climbed into the boat, and the stranger nudged them onto the water before hopping in himself. He gathered the oars and began rowing them toward the raft.

House studied the stranger as they made the short journey to the middle of the lake. The stranger's movements were smooth and practiced. His hands were pale and strong where they gripped the oars, broad wrists and thewed forearms utterly Wilson's. But his face was not Wilson's. Not quite, anyway, now that House could look more closely. His eyes were set deeper, and his mouth was more amiable. His hair hung in unwashed black strands across his forehead.

The stranger caught House staring and flashed a smile that was almost a blush. It quickly shifted into a look of sober determination as he quickened his pace.

They reached their destination minutes later. The raft in the middle of the lake was anchored below the water; House could see the rope tied off as they closed in, the length of it descending into the deep murk. The raft itself looked like it was made of birch poles, stripped of their bark, bleached and sun-polished and covered in old blotches if bird poop and green algae stains.

Wilson was lying in the middle of the raft. Unconscious or asleep, House couldn't tell. He was sprawled strangely with his arms over his face like a man who'd been walking through the desert and had finally succumbed to the heat.

Seeing Wilson after having just met the hooded stranger was odd; the real Wilson looked softer, whiter, more vulnerable by comparison.

House leaned out of the boat and gave Wilson's leg a nudge. "Hey, Wilson. Wake up."

Beside House, the stranger reached over the side of the canoe and grabbed the rope to pull them alongside the raft.

Wilson stirred, lowering an arm. "House? Is that you?"

"No, it's Timothy. And I found Stew Cat here wandering in the fields. Of course it's me, you idiot."

Wilson blinked like it hurt. His eyes were red-rimmed and inflamed. His lips looked chapped and swollen.

"He's very ill," said the stranger, reaching out determinedly for Wilson's pant leg. "We must get him on dry land."

House helped the stranger pull Wilson off the raft and into the boat. They lay him in the bottom and maneuvered him until his head was resting on House's feet. Then, the stranger drew a knife and slashed the ties that were holding the raft together. He gave the birch poles a nudge that sent the raft disintegrating, poles drifting apart, before tucking his knife away and settling himself at the oars once again.

He began rowing them back to shore as House watched the raft slowly drift to pieces until it no longer resembled a structure but a bunch of branches in the water.

When House looked back, over Iacomus's shoulder, he realized they weren't returning to the beach but to a shallow, grassy inlet a quarter of a mile away.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

Iacomus looked over his shoulder and nodded. "Into those trees."

Beyond the grassy inlet, House could see tall, dark trees, the beginnings of a forest. He couldn't tell how big it was, but considering their strange circumstances up until now, Fangorn wasn't out of the question.

When they reached the shore, the stranger drew in the oars and hopped out of the boat, careless of the sloshing water around his ankles that soaked the hem of his cloak. He pulled the boat up onto the soft, green bank, then extended an arm to help House after him. House gripped tightly, reassured by the familiarity of Iacomus's hand, and stepped carefully onto dry land.

"Thanks," he said. He paused to rub his leg and catch his breath. He was shaking a little, but he wasn't sure why. Maybe the pain, maybe the shock of all that had happened finally settling in.

They left Wilson lying in the bottom of the boat as they pulled it the rest of the way onto the bank. Wilson looked disturbingly pale, so House took his vitals, fingers pressed to the warm pulse point at Wilson's neck, and was reassured by the strong heartbeat he found.

"Here, give him some of this to drink." The stranger handed House his leather bladder.

House crouched by the side of the boat and, leaning over, managed to get Wilson to drink, though most of the wine that came out of the bladder ended up on his face.

Wilson spluttered and coughed.

"Quit complaining," House scolded. "You're ruining my sweatshirt."

The stranger instructed House to guard the boat while he went to find help.

"What help?" asked House.

"I'll return quickly," said the stranger. "I promise."

"What do you expect me to do if I'm attacked? Throw insults? Pebbles?"

"You're good at both, are you not?" The corner of the stranger's mouth quirked.

"What's your name?" asked House.

"Iacomus," said the stranger.

He bowed politely, then turned and jogged off.

* * *

House managed to doze off in the grass in Iacomus's absence, slightly drunk on wine he couldn't help taking a few swallows of, despite the man's earlier instructions to guard the boat.

When Iacomus returned two hours later leading two horses, House heard the approaching hooves and was instantly awake and rubbing the sleep from his eyes. A quick glance at Wilson lying in the boat reassured him; Wilson was asleep, quiescent and peaceful.

One of the horses Iacomus was leading was the very same black pony House and Wilson had ridden from the hilltop.

"She is my horse," Iacomus explained, seeing House's look of surprise. "But she does not recognize her master because his heart lies within another."

"So... that whole switched heart thing. That's you?"

"Yes."

House rose stiffly to his feet.

"How is your scar?" asked Iacomus.

"I should be shocked and offended that you know about that," said House.

"Not at all. You talk in your sleep. That's how I found you."

House helped--as much as he could, anyway--as Iacomus lifted Wilson's unconscious body out of the boat and onto the black pony. He then helped boost House behind him.

House steadied himself and slid his arms around Wilson.

"Can you hold him?" asked Iacomus. "I'm afraid I could not spare the time to steal a bit for her. Eiriker's men are slow and easily commanded, but they have incredibly good hearing."

"I'm good," said House. "Not so sure about galloping, though."

"There will be no need." Iacomus mounted his own stolen horse, which was slim and gray. "We're only going as far as the forest. But the ground is dangerous there, so horses are safer."

House wasn't sure what could be dangerous about the ground under a bunch of trees, but in the short time he'd spent in this place, he'd learned it was unwise to assume nothing.

"Phillip and Timothy and Stew Cat walked into a haunted forest," House muttered as he held onto Wilson. The black pony followed Iacomus across the field and carried them toward the forest.

As Iacomus led their horses into the protective shadows of the trees, House heard thumps and slithering sounds snaking along the ground. They were very faint at first, easily mistaken for wind--until House realized there was no wind. The air in the trees was as still as a tomb.

The black pony snorted nervously, and the gray horse's tail twitched. House eyed the leaves, which spiraled and danced as if tossed by wind.

"Ghosts," said Iacomus, before House could ask.

"Seriously?"

"Quite," said Iacomus. "They guard the Lady's forest."

"You mean like Galadriel?"

"She rules these woods," said Iacomus. "This place has been her home for many ages. She will be able to help your friend."

In reality, it made about as much sense as describing a taxi cab by the color of its feathers. In Fairy World, however, it sounded perfectly logical.

"So is this like a motif of harmful sensation?" asked House.

Iacomus glanced back at him quizzically.

"You know, the whole heart switching thing," said House. "Something otherwise benign except when it's magical. Like the Evil Eye or El Zahir. You don't really mean Wilson's heart, but his _heart_ \--in the Blaise Pascal sense of the word."

"I mean the artifact of his soul."

"Right," nodded House. "His _ka_." House adjusted his grip around Wilson. "Let me ask you something."

"Ask," said Iacomus.

"Do you have sheuts, too? Like shadow selves? Like in Egypt?"

"Egypt?"

"Aegyptus," said House.

"Ah, yes. I've met men from that land, but I've never heard of this shadow-self of which you speak."

"You've met people from Egypt, but you hang out here? How does that work?"

"I did not always dwell in this place."

"No kidding." House shrugged. "Egypt's a good country. Popular resort. Only makes sense it would have the same reputation here in Fairy Land. So where do you come from?"

"Does you always talk this much?"

"My leg hurts," said House. "Humor me. So how did you do it?"

"How did I do what?"

House shifted uncomfortably in his seat when a particularly violent spell swirled through the leaves and caused both horses to snort nervously.

"When you switched your heart with Wilson's," said House. "Or _ka_. Or whatever you wanna call it."

"I asked him to give it to me," said Iacomus.

"And he said yes? Wow."

They headed deeper into the protective enclave of the trees. Soon, House could no longer see the sky, and the world around them became deep and dark like the unlit nave of a lofty cathedral. The ground was blanketed in needles, and the tree trunks were swathed in soft green moss.

Just when the forest seemed like it couldn't get any deeper or darker, House spotted a light in the distance.

He thought it was a young tree at first, a fragile white birch sitting amidst the monstrous evergreens. But as they got closer, House realized he wasn't looking at a tree at all.

It was a woman. She was holding a white, slender branch from a birch tree, its delicate yellow leaves still intact and flickering like gold coins. She had long, golden hair and skin as pale as porcelain. Her eyes were keen and bright blue.

Iacomus stopped and slid from his horse. He knelt before the pale woman and bowed his head. House could only stare.

"My Lady," said Iacomus.

The Lady smiled and reached out a delicate hand as if to touch him, but her fingers stilled inches away. Instead, she looked up at House.

"You may come down," she said. "You are safe here."

"Thanks," said House dumbly, still staring.

Iacomus helped Wilson down from the pony. House slid down after him, wincing when his feet hit the ground.

"Is this her?" House asked, bending to rub his thigh.

"Yes," said Iacomus.

"Is she a ghost, too?"

Iacomus hesitated.

"Yes," he said slowly, delivering the word with enough weight behind it that House wondered how the Lady had died and how Iacomus had been involved in her death, since it was obvious he knew more than he wanted to let on.

"She's not suffering in infinite turmoil, is she?" asked House. "You didn't murder her or anything like that?"

Iacomus looked horrified, but the Lady interrupted them.

"Is he dead or merely sleeping?" she asked, her gaze fixed on Wilson.

"He was on the lake." Iacomus lowered Wilson carefully to the ground in front of the Lady.

House and Iacomus watched as the Lady knelt at Wilson's side. She touched his brow and bent to whisper in his ear--soft words that neither man could hear.

House wasn't sure what brow-touching and ear-whispering was going to do to help Wilson (a shot of adrenaline or a sharp, swift kick to the head would have made more sense), but he was starting to recognize that there were rules that applied in this place that didn't apply at home. New kinds of physics and biology that required new kinds of thinking--even if it was all useless, hallucinatory, Dorothy-skipping-along-the-yellow-brick-road kinds of thinking. House was even beginning to wonder how many of these new rules he might break, and who that would piss off more.

"He's all right," pronounced the Lady after a moment.

"Great," said House. "Let's wake him up."

"He will awaken in time," said the Lady. She rose and smiled serenely.

"Thank you," said Iacomus. He bowed again, and House wondered how often a person could do that before his knees gave out.

The Lady bowed in return, then turned and retreated into the woods before House could ask her any questions about mystical healing practices, the eating habits of ghosts, or where she got her nails done. Her strange light went with her, and soon the forest was dark again.

"Well, that was interesting," said House.

"We'll stay here the night," said Iacomus. He removed his cloak and spread it over Wilson as a blanket. "This forest is protected."

"From what?" asked House.

"Everything."

* * *

House was reclined against one of the huge, moss-covered trees and dozing lightly when Wilson finally regained consciousness.

"House?"

House awoke with a snort and licked his lips, hands instinctively rising to protect his scar. He blinked across at Wilson, who'd propped himself up on his elbow.

"What happened?" asked Wilson.

House yawned and stretched. "You were abducted by aliens. We're counting down for the chest-burster."

Wilson exhaled sharply--the best laugh he could manage in his weakened state--and carefully pulled himself upright. "Where are we?" he asked, blinking up at the trees.

"Most assuredly down the rabbit hole."

"Seriously, House."

"Seriously." House scooted over to him and proceeded to check his vitals. "How's your head?"

"It's fine. How's your leg?"

"Still hurts. What's the last thing you remember?"

Wilson thought about it. "I... remember going out in the boat. And I remember being afraid of the water for some reason, and then--" he shook his head. "Nothing after that."

He focused his gaze on House. "What happened to you? How did you get away?"

"Your pulse is good," said House. He switched to examining Wilson's eyes. "You're not turning strange colors."

"I feel like I've just landed after a twelve hour flight." Wilson rubbed his face.

"It's the trees," said House, looking up. "They've been making me feel strange, too."

"Is this a... magical forest?"

"Wait 'til you see. Pretty cool stuff."

"How did we get here?"

House explained the incident with the banshee and his rescue by Iacomus. He left out the part about Iacomus looking like Wilson's scruffy nerfherding twin and the fact that Iacomus and Wilson were apparently soul brothers; he still hadn't figured out that part himself.

"Now that you're awake you can help me get this fire going again," said House. He poked at the small campfire Iacomus had built in the clearing. Iacomus had wandered off while House and Wilson slept, and the flames had dwindled in his absence.

Wilson crawled over to the fire and sat next to House. "Got any matches?"

"Nope."

"Oh, good. Then this will be like the Bloody Stupid Johnson version of a campfire."

House started poking at the embers. "Bloody Stupid 'My Name Is Wilson Not Johnson' Johnson, you mean."

Wilson stood and wandered around the clearing looking for twigs and dry kindling. "Bloody Stupid 'I Might Sound Clever But Really I'm Depressed And Needy And Have To Bring Everyone Else Down With Me' Johnson," he said. He picked up a dead branch that was covered in a weird, glittering moss, sniffed it, then tossed it aside.

"Bloody Stupid 'You Might Think I'm An Oncologist But Really I'm A Man-Strumpet' Johnson," said House.

Wilson tossed more twigs on the fire, then brushed his hands on the thighs of his blue jeans.

"This is a pretty sad trope, isn't it?" House sat back as the flames slowly returned to full strength. The tiny fire spat smoke and crackled.

"What is?"

"The whole campfire in a haunted forest thing."

"I'd say every single thing we've seen so far qualifies," said Wilson. "Renegade elves-- _elves_ , even. Ritual sacrifice. Ominous underground metallurgy indicative of war preparation."

"Guys in leather."

"Weird people hanging out in mountains wearing masks."

"How come campfires in movies are always so clean?" asked House, waving smoke out of his face and sliding back further. "You never see annoyingly smoky campfires. Think the Scorpion King is _just that good_?"

"Yes," said Wilson.

A moment later, Iacomus returned carrying two freshly killed rabbits and a long, slender stick.

He spotted Wilson at once. "You're awake."

"Can't keep an ancient ought-to-be-dead heart down," said House.

Wilson stared.

Iacomus smiled cordially at Wilson as if not sure how to explain himself. Then he remembered the objects in his hand and handed the walking stick to House. "I found this in the forest. I thought you might find it useful."

"Thanks." House took the stick and gave it an experimental few stamps on the ground. "I don't think _cane lost in a fairy dungeon_ is covered by my medical insurance."

"House, who is this?" asked Wilson.

"This is the guy who saved our lives. Iacomus, Wilson. Wilson, Iacomus."

Iacomus bowed. "I am at your service."

Wilson arched an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right?"

"I would have said 'James' and 'James,' but then you'd both be saying 'what' at the same, and that would get old," said House.

"Is he... _me_?"

"I'm still working on that one."

"You said twin, and I didn't believe you."

"Neither did I."

"So you saved me?" Wilson asked Iacomus.

"The elves knew the heart you carry is not your own," said Iacomus. "That is why you were placed on the raft. The water was cursed and would have killed you had we not rescued you when we did."

"Whoa," said Wilson. "So when he said I had your heart, he meant I really had your heart?"

"I don't think organ transplants work the same way here as they do at home, Jimmy." House tossed a few more sticks onto the fire. "These guys don't look like they'd carry beer coolers, anyway." He turned to Iacomus. "No offense."

"When the elves learn that your friend is still alive, they will hunt you both down," said Iacomus.

"That was because of you?" asked Wilson. "I mean, they weren't trying to punish me just because I killed one of them. They thought I was you?"

"Yes."

Iacomus lay the rabbits on the ground a few feet from the fire then drew his knife from his belt and began gutting them.

"Is this place safe from those... elves?" asked Wilson.

"They're afraid to come here," said Iacomus.

"Maybe they're allergic to the trees," said House. "Good riddance."

"Okay, apart from the fact that this is all completely impossible--" Wilson raised both hands as if to block out the bad thoughts from his scope of consciousness.

"It's cozy here," said House. "But we can't stick around. We're on our way to the ocean."

"Yes, I know," said Iacomus. "You seek the help of the sea king."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," said House.

"I've met the sea king," said Iacomus.

"You definitely say _that_ like it's a bad thing."

"Are we still going there?" asked Wilson. "I mean, is that still the plan? Because I feel fine."

"Yeah," laughed House. "You're healthy."

"If your heart isn't returned to you, then you can never go home," said Iacomus. "My heart would not survive a second trip. Crossing water means crossing between worlds, and that is the most powerful kind of magic."

"So you switched our hearts," said Wilson. "That ring--that was you?"

House looked down at the silver ring on his finger. He'd nearly forgotten about it.

"I knew it was only a matter of time before you were brought into this world," said Iacomus. "The sea king is very dangerous."

"So you were protecting us from him," said Wilson.

"No," said House. "He was protecting himself. That's why he switched you in the first place. He's being hunted." House turned to Iacomus. "Did I get that right?"

"Yes," said Iacomus.

"What did you do to piss this guy off?" asked House. "Sleep with his daughter? Burn down Castle Grayskull?"

"The details matter not," said Iacomus.

Wilson laughed. "Then you're obviously not listening to the heart you've got in there. If it really is mine, it would tell you the details matter more to House than anything."

"No, he's right," said House, his mind fitting together a few more of the puzzle pieces. "It's not about the details. Well, it is, but it's me knowing them. That matters more."

"House, I don't think--"

"It's me," said House. "The sea king, the big bad guy we haven't met yet? It's me. Just like you two are connected. Just like Eiriker and Foreman, the elf king and Cuddy, Chase, Amber--"

"Whoa, whoa. Amber again? What--"

"If I know all the _whys_ and _hows_ of whatever this guy did to get banished in the first place, then there's a chance I might react the same way. I might kill both of you."

House looked over at Iacomus to see his reaction.

Iacomus was grim-faced, fingering the bloody knife in his hand.

House stabbed at the fire with his stick and sent sparks popping into the air. "Switching hearts with Wilson because you figure Wilson's a safe bet is the most naive thing I've ever heard," he said.

* * *

After Iacomus cooked the rabbits, the three men ate supper around the campfire in contemplative silence. Iacomus had stopped being chatty hours before--probably, House guessed, to keep from dropping any more hints that might endanger Wilson's life. Wilson had gone quiet, too, and House wondered if Wilson's silence had anything to do with Iacomus's silence. It was weird seeing them together. Like watching identical twins resist being identical. Like a cat seeing his reflection in the mirror and hissing at himself in confusion.

After they'd eaten, they stretched out on the ground to sleep.

House had just closed his eyes when he heard Wilson's whisper.

"House. Are you awake?"

House tried to ignore it, but Wilson nudged him in the shoulder a second later, and he couldn't help but open his eyes.

"Of course I'm awake," said House. "What the hell do you want?"

"I was thinking--"

"Christ." House rubbed his face.

"What if this is like a Fisher King kind of thing?" asked Wilson.

"What do you mean?"

"What if something we did made this guy into what he is? Obviously he's traumatized. Maybe he's suffering from delusions."

House looked over at him. "Do you really think that's what happened?"

"Do you think it makes more sense that we actually switched hearts with each other?"

"I liked my evil twin theory," said House.

Wilson glanced toward his feet to make sure Iacomus was still asleep before leaning in closer. "I don't know if it's twin sense or what, but I don't trust this guy."

"You don't trust yourself?"

"We didn't switch hearts," said Wilson. "It's impossible."

"So was human flight, five hundred years ago."

Wilson sighed and lay back. "Forget it, House. Forget I said anything."

House was on a roll now. He propped himself up on his elbow. "See, you can't be objective about any of this."

"I'm sleeping now, House." Wilson turned away.

House went right on talking to the back of his head. "Eiriker was right. Your manner's changed. You can't see it because you don't want to see it. That guy sleeping across the fire is more like you than you are."

"Yes, and you're so well-suited to this place, House. You fit right in with the cave trolls."

"Wilson wouldn't want to go home. He'd wanna stick around and put Neosporin on everything."

"Goodnight, House."

House sighed and stared at Wilson's shoulder for a moment longer. Then he lay back and closed his eyes with a sigh.

* * *

The campfire had dwindled down to smoldering ashes when House woke the second time--to the sound of someone weeping.

He sat up blinking in the dim forest. The trees' strange, glittering luminescence made it impossible to tell if it was still night, and only by glancing down at Wilson's face and spotting the middle stages of a cycle of REM sleep did House guess that it was probably on the closer side of dawn.

He listened carefully for the weeping sound to repeat. Sure enough, his ears caught it again a moment later. Faint and delicate, like the first whispers of the banshee the previous night, only distinctly corporeal.

House thought of kicking Wilson to wake him. But seeing Wilson asleep on one side of the fire and Iacomus on the other was like looking at Yin and Yang personified, a human taijitu he didn't want to disturb, so he left Wilson alone and grabbed his new walking stick and headed into the trees.

He didn't have to walk far before he spotted a familiar light shimmering in a clearing.

He slowly approached.

The Lady was kneeling in the pine needles, scooping her pale hands through them and drawing swirling shapes.

"This the sort of thing you do in your free time?" asked House.

The Lady didn't look up. House took a step closer, watching her, trying to see what she was drawing.

"Your lip is bleeding," said the Lady.

House touched his lip and found bright blood.

"It's his blood, not yours. A wound given to him by one of his prisoners."

"I keep prisoners? Cool."

House sat down in the pine needles and watched the Lady draw the outline of a person.

"Would you like me to make you a changeling? He would be of needles to fit your personality. A slave to command as you wish."

She bent slightly and blew a kiss, and at once, the pines needle inside the perimeter of the outline began to coalesce into a mass. In moments, a definite _figure_ lay between them, formed out of needles and magic.

House didn't realize he'd recoiled in horror until the Lady smiled at him. Her blue eyes were hypnotizing, cold yet fiery, and House couldn't believe she wasn't alive.

"If it disturbs you, I will kill it," she said.

She touched the head of the golem she'd created, and immediately it disintegrated back into a carpet of lifeless pine needles on the forest floor.

"House?"

House jumped at the sound of Wilson's voice behind him.

When he turned and looked again, the Lady was gone.

"Jesus, don't _do_ that."

House got to his feet and made his way over to Wilson. Wilson was armed with Iacomus's sword, hair disheveled, looking like a kid who'd just stumbled out of bed after a nightmare.

"What are you doing here?" asked House.

"I thought something happened. You weren't by the fire--" Wilson clutched his hand to his chest and made a pained face.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," grunted Wilson. He rubbed his chest a little, catching his breath. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," said House, pushing Wilson's arm out of the way and pressing his fingers to his throat to feel his pulse. "You feel lightheaded?"

Wilson nodded.

"Give me your hand," said House. He grabbed Wilson's right hand and brought it to his own neck. He helped Wilson's fingers locate his pulse. "Feel that?"

"Yeah," said Wilson.

"It's sympathetic," said House.

Wilson gave him an annoyed look and tried to pull his away from House's neck. "Very funny."

But House wasn't being sarcastic. He held tight and made sure Wilson could feel his pulse. "The raft and the water had nothing to do with it," he said. "You were away from me. That's what made you sick."

Realization dawned in Wilson's eyes. "You mean--"

"It means you got sick because we were separated. Maybe the salmon. Maybe the place. I don't know yet."

"Then he was lying to us," said Wilson.

"I don't think so," said House. "I don't think he knows. I think he assumed that's what it was."

"Why would he assume something like that?"

"Maybe he's been in this place for too long. You're an oncologist. You see cancer in everything. He'd be liked you. He'd see what he knows."

House checked Wilson's pulse again. It had slowed.

"Better?" asked House.

"Yeah," said Wilson. He lowered his hand from House's neck.

"Doesn't mean we kiss now," said House.

"I'm far too intrigued by the biofeedback implications of sympathetic heartbeats to even figure out how--" Wilson froze when the sound of the weeping child echoed through the trees again. "Did you hear that?"

"Why do you think I'm awake?" House snatched the sword out of Wilson's hand. "Give me that thing. God knows you're a menace with a sharp object."

House started through the trees, sword in one hand and walking stick in the other. Wilson followed.

"Who were you talking to out here, anyway?" asked Wilson.

"David the Gnome. I needed a differential."

The weeping sound grew louder. House stopped to lean against a moss-covered tree while Wilson leaned against another.

Wilson started counting down silently on his fingers. _Three... two... one..._ He jumped out from behind his tree. House stayed put and chuckled to himself.

"What are you trying to do, ambush the trees?" laughed House. "Think they wouldn't see you coming?"

"You were supposed to jump with me!" Wilson glared at him then looked around. "There's nothing here. Terrific."

The weeping had stopped. House stepped out from behind his tree and crept slowly around the clearing, sword held ready, listening.

"House?"

"Be quiet," said House.

A twig snapped, and House spun around as something jumped out from behind a tree. He saw a blur of white, small and quick, with long dark hair trailing behind--

"House!"

House fell back in surprise and landed on the soft, needle-cushioned ground with a grunt.

A child--a little girl probably no more five or six years old--was huddled on the ground behind Wilson, using his legs as cover. Wilson stood frozen, afraid to move, arms raised as if he had scorpions circling his legs.

House rolled his eyes and got to his feet. "Well, _that_ was dramatic. Are we all still breathing?"

Wilson remained still. The little girl at his feet was shivering, wild-eyed and panicked as she stared up at House.

"Relax, kid. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Maybe you should ease up on the sword," said Wilson.

"For all we know, she's a ghost."

"For all we know, she's a frightened child. Now, will you _please_ just--" Wilson gestured at House's sword.

House lowered it.

Wilson looked down at the child. "We're not going to hurt you," he said gently.

The little girl continued to stare up at him.

"Wow, you really got through to her," said House.

Suddenly, the little girl jumped into Wilson's arms. Wilson grunted with surprise but managed to hold on. The girl wrapped her arms around his neck and hid her face.

"I guess that was good doctor/bad doctor," said House.

"She's terrified," said Wilson.

"Ask her her name."

Wilson brushed the little girl's hair back. She was wearing rags--two or three layers of linen dress--and her bare feet were dirty and cut.

"What's your name?" Wilson asked.

"Try Italian," said House.

"What?"

"Reticella lace on her dress," said House. "Try Italian."

"Come ti chiami?" Wilson asked the girl.

The little girl looked up at Wilson with wide, tear-filled eyes. She sniffed. "Brigata."

Wilson smirked. "Cute."

"What did she say?"

"She said Brigata. Brigata's not a name. It's a group of people. From _The Decameron_. As in _Cameron_."

"Seriously?"

"Hey, it's your theory, House. Reapply as necessary."

* * *

"If she was brought here by the king, then it is a miracle she managed to escape his thrall," said Iacomus.

He knelt in front of Wilson, who was sitting at the base of a tree near the campfire with the little girl still clinging to him. He studied the child, his dark Wilson-eyes full of thought. Wilson himself remained still, resigned to being a safety net.

"Maybe she's a spy," offered House, who was keeping his distance.

"Do you really think that?" asked Wilson.

"No, but if this is a fairy tale, then one of us should subscribe to the whole getting-our-mortal-asses-kicked motif."

"Child, how did you come here?" Iacomus brushed back the little girl's tangled hair with gentle fingers.

"Mi papa," she said. "Siamo arrivati in barca."

"She came by boat," said Wilson. "With her father."

"And where is your father now?"

The little girl uttered a long, rambling sentence.

Wilson blinked. "Wow, okay. I only caught part of that. Something about the sea." He looked up at House. "And rocco?"

"Rook," said House. "Chess piece."

"What does that mean?"

"All mortals who come to this land do so by water," said Iacomus. "Her father is most likely an artisan of some sort, one whose skills intrigue the king, and so he was invited."

"And by invited, you mean he didn't have any choice in the matter," said Wilson.

"It seems not."

"This guy kidnaps people for entertainment," said House. "That's his schtick? He tricks them into hanging out with him?"

"You do that all the time, House," said Wilson.

"Hey, at least I'm willing to pay cash for friends. I don't go around kidnapping people."

"We have to get her back to her father," said Wilson.

"Oh, no. You're not turning this into a quest."

"We need the king, don't we?" asked Wilson. "I mean, to switch our hearts back? That's why we were going there in the first place. God, I can't believe I just said that."

"Yes," said Iacomus.

"Then we take her with us," said Wilson. "No big deal."

"Wrong," said House. "Huge big deal."

"Why?"

"What if her father's not there? What if he's already dead?"

"Then we take her home," said Wilson.

"But she's _Cameron_ ," said House. "Hello, awkward?"

"House, I'm not abandoning a child in this place."

"I thought you were asleep at your desk. This is supposed to be a hallucination, remember?"

"She cannot go with you," said Iacomus. "Your world is not hers."

"There. You see?"

"But _you_ came to our world," said Wilson. "And now I _really_ can't believe I just said that."

"At great expense," said Iacomus. "And only for a short time."

"We can't leave her here, and we can't take her home, and if we take her back to her father, then she's right back where she started. So what do we do?"

House let the tip of his walking stick bounce off the rubber toe of his shoe.

"House?"

"Shut up, I'm thinking."

"That's a start."

"I'd think a whole lot better if you were elsewhere. It's not as cool as it might sound being outnumbered by Wilsons." House sighed and rubbed his forehead. "This king wants friends. He wants them so badly he's willing to steal them. Maybe all we have to do is show up, and he'll steal us."

"What good will that do?" asked Wilson.

"Seriously, you have to ask? How many people have actually liked me _more_ once they've gotten to know me? You don't win Greg House in a poker game. You don't take him home with you."

Wilson nodded. "You have a point."

* * *

"This is never going to work," said House. "I feel like the mechanical Turk."

"Just hold still." Wilson pushed the tiny bone needle through the fabric. "This was your idea, remember?"

"But I'm not fooled by costumes. I see right through them. So will this guy."

"That's why it'll work. He'll be curious."

The coat House was now wearing had once belonged to Iacomus. It looked like a priest's cassock, but it was heavier. And beautiful--made of heavy blue silk samite and lined in silver embroidery. Iacomus had explained that the coat had been a gift from the sea king, and that he'd left it in the care of the Lady of the forest for safekeeping. Wilson was left to repair two buttons that were hanging on for dear life.

"Why would a coat like this make him curious?" asked House, eyeing Wilson's tailoring.

"If you waltzed into this guy's throne room dressed like a bum, he'd figure you out in two seconds. He'd probably throw you out before you even made it past the front gate. But if you walk in there dressed up in this thing, he'll try to peel you apart."

House looked down at him skeptically.

"You know I'm right," said Wilson. "You don't know how the hell to deal with me when I'm not wearing a tie. You wouldn't know what to do with Cuddy if she came to work in sweatpants. Or Foreman if you saw him in a Jerome Bettis jersey. You attack costumes, House. You attack characters. This guy needs a character."

"I'm not enough of a character in my Levi's?"

"Not the right kind of character. Not someone he'd want to play games with."

House didn't say anything to that, so Wilson glanced up at him. "Think I'm wrong?"

"No, actually, I think you're pretty clever. And frighteningly good at sewing on buttons." He tested Wilson's handiwork with a tug.

"It's a little short for you, but--"

"Compared to what, right?"

"Right," said Wilson. "It's not like we have a fairy fashion template to work from."

"I am not a fairy," said Iacomus, looking up from the sword he'd been sharpening during their conversation. Brigata was sitting on the ground next to him, mimicking the way he worked the whetstone with two sticks. "I am a human, just as you are."

"A human being who liked to disguise himself as an elf," said House. "You were in the tunnels, weren't you? With the elves. I saw you twice."

"Yes," said Iacomus. "It was necessary to protect you."

"Protect your heart, you mean," said House.

Iacomus stopped sharpening and ran the pad of his thumb along the sword blade. Satisfied, he stood and removed his sword belt. He helped Wilson fasten it around his waist.

House watched, amused by the sight of the two James's exchanging clothes.

Iacomus handed Wilson the sharpened sword.

"Carolingian," said House, eyeing the jeweled pommel.

"Yes," said Iacomus. "It was gift from Bertrada of Leon, mother of Karolus."

"You mean _Charlemagne_?" Wilson narrowed his eyes. "This isn't _that_ sword, is it?"

"Please be careful with it," said Iacomus.

"As if you have to tell Wilson that." House rolled his eyes.

"I wasn't talking to Wilson."

"Oh, I like this," said Wilson. "Tag-teaming a game of wits against my best friend." He took the sword from Iacomus and slid it carefully into the scabbard that hung at his side. "I wish I'd had you around my whole life."

"Yeah, yeah," said House. "Enjoy it while it lasts."

* * *

They traveled by horse to the far end of the forest. House and Wilson rode the black pony as before while Iacomus rode the gray hose with the little girl, whom House befriended easily after teaching her the lyrics to "It's the End of the World as We Know It." He got through one verse and had her belting out the chorus at the top of her lungs in clumsy, heavily-accented English before Wilson urged them both to shut up for the sake of all of Fairy-dom.

"She's bored," said House.

"No, she's not."

"So what's your dad do for a living, kiddo?" House asked Brigata.

"House," warned Wilson.

"What? I'm just trying to make conversation. We can't sing, we have to find some other way of entertaining ourselves."

"Try making silence instead."

House looked over at the little girl. "Wanna learn another song?"

"Yes!" shouted Brigata.

"Oh, good grief," groaned Wilson.

"God save us," groaned Iacomus.


	7. Chapter 7

They were standing at the edge of the forest near a ravine where large, pale boulders jutted out of the green landscape. Deep crevices, thick with moss, marked the land like dark, ancient scars. It was a beautiful place, but there was no time to enjoy it. Iacomus had brought them to an ancient stone well in the middle of it all. Now, they stood around it, staring down into its narrow depths.

"There are many doors that lead into the realm of the sea king," said Iacomus. "This is one of them, but it has not been used in a lifetime, so your road may be difficult."

"Is there water down there?" asked Wilson.

"No," said Iacomus. "The well is false. It will lead you to into the king's palace."

"I thought he lived by the ocean," said Wilson.

"The sea is very near. Hidden by magic."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Fairy haar," said House.

"Har har," said Wilson.

Brigata circled around them impatiently, too short to see over the edge of the well. Wilson noticed her plight and hoisted her into his arms for a better view.

"The path leads to the king's palace by way of a waterfall," said Iacomus. "You should have no trouble finding it."

"What do I do when I meet the king?" asked House.

"He will be expecting you. Tell him that you are a healer from a distant land."

"But I _am_ a healer from a distant land. Why kind of plan is that?"

"Because he's you," said Wilson. "The point isn't to hide information. It's to play Pong with his head. Volley information. Whatever it is you do in front of the mirror."

"I do a lot of strange things in front of the mirror," said House.

"You must not ask him for help," said Iacomus. "He will see that help is needed."

"And that will work because...?"

"Because you both have huge egos," said Wilson. "He'll try to show you up."

"Right," said House, feeling slightly wounded at how easily Wilson managed to say that.

"So that's it?" asked Wilson. "The king will switch us back and then we can go home?"

"Not quite," said Iacomus. "I cannot go with you, so you must signal that I may carry out my end of the exchange."

"What kind of signal?" asked House.

"You must remove the ring from your hand."

House looked down at the silver ring.

"It is the only way to save your friend so that you may return home," said Iacomus. "I am sorry."

House nodded. "He said it would come to this."

"Who?" asked Wilson. "What's wrong?"

"The guy in the cave. He said I'd have to give up the ring to save you. The ring won't come off unless I cut it off."

"Are you serious?" Wilson look horrified.

"It's only a finger," said House. "Not a big deal. Not compared to a heart, anyway."

"House, believing people can switch hearts is one thing, but actually cutting off a part of your body? That's insane, that's--"

"One of us gets the X-ray, remember?" said House. "Either I'll be able to do it or I won't."

House dumped his walking stick aside, then grabbed the old rope on the well, preparing to climb in.

* * *

"You two okay back there?"

Wilson lead the way through the dark, dripping tunnel. He'd decided to go first for the sake of House's robes and was doing his best to find the cleanest, clearest path in the narrow dank.

"Peachy," said House, dodging all the puddles that Brigata, who was walking between the two men, saw fit to splash in.

"So what did you mean by Amber?" asked Wilson abruptly.

"What?"

"Back in the forest, you said you'd found Amber. Or her counterpart, mirror, whatever you wanna call it."

"You didn't meet her," said House hastily, wishing Wilson hadn't brought it up. "Not while you were conscious, anyway. She was in the forest. She saved your life, then she left."

"Oh." Wilson sounded disappointed. "So nothing happened?"

"What was supposed to happen?"

"Your theory about this place being a mirror--"

"It's a theory," said House. "That's all."

"Right," nodded Wilson.

"I hate this," said House, dodging another puddle. "I'm sick of tunnels. I'm sick of horses. I want to go home and eat fast food and sit on plastic chairs again."

"Me too," said Wilson.

"Me too!" echoed Brigata.

"Hey, kid." House caught up to her. "Quick, while Wilson isn't paying attention. What's your dad's name? _Nome_? _Babbo_?"

"I _can_ hear you, House," said Wilson.

"Is he a short guy, sleeps around?"

"You think Cameron's dad is... Taub?" Wilson glanced over his shoulder in horror.

"She's not Cameron. She's Brigata. Sheesh, Wilson. Get your names right." House looked down at the little girl. "Right?"

"Right," she parroted.

"Her English sucks, anyway," said House. "Probably had a mother who spoke it. I'm betting she died recently, left Dad with the kids. Dad's probably a librarian."

"Just because his named his daughter Brigata?"

"Well, I'm guessing he's not a mechanic or a priest. Poseidon's only stealing people that interest him, and priests and mechanics aren't interesting. Unless they're _priest mechanics_."

They continued walking in silence. House paused once--at Wilson's insistence--to rest his leg, but they didn't remain still for long before House's impatience won out, and they were moving again.

House began to notice a gentle grade in the floor leading them deeper underground. He could hear a rumbling sound that echoed up through the stone and shook droplets of water onto their shoulders.

"Tuono," breathed the little girl.

"Yeah," said Wilson. "Sounds like it."

"What'd she say?" asked House.

"Thunder," said Wilson.

The floor went from crumbling stones to smooth, slick tiles that were a luminous green color, and House stopped when he realized what he was looking at.

"Hey, hold up," he said.

He knelt down, mindful of his blue robe, and ran a hand over one of the tiles. It was the size of a cafeteria tray and made of pure emerald. And there were hundreds of them.

"What is it?" asked Wilson, gazing at the floor where House was knelt.

"Emerald," said House, looking up at him in amazement. "Jesus, Wilson. Maybe we _should_ stick around."

"Somehow, I don't think this is the merry old land of Oz," said Wilson.

"Maybe we can smash one. The corner of one of these tiles alone has got to be worth millions."

"Come on," said Wilson, hauling House to his feet and herding him along. "No treasure hunting."

They found the source of the thunder--the waterfall--moments later. It was smaller than House had expected, more like a shower than a waterfall. It sprang from an ornate spout carved out of the emerald wall high above and plunged down into a similarly carved emerald ravine below.

They ducked under it, Wilson taking the brunt of the water for the sake of House's coat.

"Thanks," said House.

"Don't mention it." Wilson wrung out the hem of his now-soaked sweatshirt.

"At least it's not cold in here," said House.

"At least," said Wilson.

"Orologio," whispered Brigata.

"What did she say?" asked House.

Wilson blinked, confused. "She said 'clock.'"

House looked around at the room they were in, suddenly noticing the details. A carefully constructed ravine lined the floor, catching the waterfall but directing it around the room to various levers and spills. Other channels circled the room, smaller and more intricately carved, and there were carved holes and narrow gutters built into the wall as well, invisible unless you were looking for them.

"It's a water clock," said House.

"Clepsydra," said the little girl.

"A clepsydra. Exactly. This whole damn room is a clock." House grinned in wonder. "If I were immortal, I would love a clock like this."

"If you're immortal, why have it at all?" asked Wilson.

"Why not?" House turned a circle in the room, gazing up at the walls, the ceilings, the hidden and brilliantly subtle workings of the gigantic timekeeper. "Watch the world tick away. Watch all the little mortals panic."

"You're one of those little mortals," said Wilson. "Don't forget."

"Yeah, yeah. Still cool, though."

They made their way across the emerald-tiled bridge and down several steps into an alcove.

They stopped when they heard a scraping sound.

There was man kneeling in the corner, sharpening something along a low, slick whetstone. He was surrounded by files and chisels and bits of emerald tile.

"Papa!" shrieked Brigata.

House and Wilson both jumped at the noise.

The man turned, confused at first, then smiled in astonishment when the little girl sprinted toward him and threw herself into his arms.

"Brigata! Bambolina!"

He held her tight, swept her up, and showered her with kisses as tears formed in his eyes.

"I think we found her father," said Wilson.

"Either that, or Cameron has even more serious daddy issues than previously thought," said House.

Brigata was babbling at her father in Italian, telling her story. After a moment, her father stood, the girl in his arms, and approached House and Wilson.

"I cannot thank you enough," he said, wiping joyful tears from his eyes with the back of his hand and sniffling even as he grinned. "For bringing my daughter back to me." He shook their hands. "I am grateful."

House gestured at the room. "This is your clock."

"Yes, yes. A timepiece. For the king." He wrung his hands, which shook with excitement. "I am sorry, I do not know your names."

"Jake and Elwood," said House. "We're astronauts. From the future."

Wilson gave him a look.

"What? It's not like he can Google us."

"I am delighted to meet you both. I am Giovanni de'Dondi of Padua."

Wilson looked at House questioningly.

"Famous clock makers from Italy," said House. "Around the time of da Vinci."

"Is he... anyone we know?"

"I don't know."

"He doesn't strike me as a 'Taub.'"

"Me either," said House. He turned back to Giovanni. "You build all this yourself?"

Giovanni nodded. "With help, of course. The king has provided me all the assistants I could ask for. Such intelligent, eager men, these underwater fellows. A marvel, is it not? A clock that will last for a thousand years."

"How long have you been working on it?" asked Wilson.

"I do not know." He turned away, finger pressed thoughtfully to his lips. "A _long_ time, to be sure. A long, long time..."

Brigata tugged at her father's sleeve, and they began conversing in hushed, rapid-fire Italian again.

House pulled Wilson aside. "This guy isn't Taub."

"How do you know?" asked Wilson.

"Giovanni de'Dondi was a creative mess. He spent twenty years building a huge clock with over a hundred gears without using a single screw or a single standard measurement. All so nobody could copy his work. He's not _principled_ , he's a secretive nut." House's eyed widened. "Oh god. He's Thirteen."

"Why does he have to be anybody?" said Wilson. "Why can't he be the one guy we meet in this place who _isn't_ someone we both already know?"

House went quiet, suddenly thoughtful.

"House?"

"We haven't met anyone like that," said House.

"Like what?"

"Someone only one of us knows. Everyone we've met has been someone we both know. That means it's not an accident. We can't both be having this dream, and we can't be dreaming separately. If we were both having it, we'd be pulled in different directions. I'd run into my mom or Crandall or someone else from my life. You'd run into your parents."

"Yeah, but we've each contributed information," said Wilson. "Concurrent dreams-- _if_ it's a dream. I know things that you don't. I can speak Italian and you can't."

"Extended mind," said House.

"What?"

"The environment becomes a part of the mind. Your environment is me, and my environment is you."

"Yeah, I met Doctor Logan. I don't think this is quite the same thing."

"It is if this is someone else's dream," said House.

Wilson stared at him.

"Either it's someone else's dream, or it's really happening," said House. "Which are you more comfortable with?"

"I think we should talk to the king," said Wilson.

* * *

They left Giovanni and Brigata after exchanging farewells--Wilson's warm and House's barely more than a nod--and made their way into another emerald-tiled tunnel.

Ahead, there was flickering torch light. House grasped Wilson's shoulder to slow him down.

"Let me go first. So I look like the leader."

Wilson smirked. "Wow, I bet that was hard to say."

"Achingly."

House moved ahead of Wilson. They passed through the tunnel and found themselves in what looked like an antechamber. Dark, deep, lit by a lone torch that glittered off the emerald walls.

House and Wilson froze when they saw a figure standing in the room.

"We knew you were coming," said the elf. His hands were clasped serenely in front of him.

He looked different from the other elves they'd seen so far. Where Eiriker's men were small and dark, and the underground elves were tall and pale, this elf was broad-shouldered, more human in appearance, with the reddest hair House had ever seen. Or maybe it was because everything else was so green, thought House.

"I am Alloro," said the elf. "My lord is waiting to meet you."

"Alloro?" House whispered to Wilson.

"Kutner," said Wilson. "Alloro means 'laurel' in Italian. Laurel. Lawrence."

"Makes sense."

"Not really, but whatever."

They followed the elf into the next room, which House guessed could only be the throne room. High and octagonal, marked by pendentives and false arches, its walls were tiled in not only emerald, but in huge slabs of countless other glistening, precious minerals. Corundum, garnet, mother-of-pearl, opals fifty feet tall, soft purple amethysts the size of windshields. It was magnificent, sleek and ancient, like the dream-mind of Carl Faberge and Poseidon put together.

"I feel like there should be mermaids," said Wilson.

"Seriously," agreed House.

There were other elves in the chamber, all of them as strikingly red-haired as Alloro. They regarded House and Wilson mostly with looks of boredom. A few whispers were exchanged, but otherwise, no one seemed to care that the sea king had guests.

At the far end of the jeweled room was a throne on a carved emerald dais, but it was empty.

Alloro guided House and Wilson instead to a nearby pool, lined with gems and pearls the size of a man's fist. Sitting by the pool and gazing at the water was the king.

House knew him at once, even without seeing his face. There was something about his posture that was familiar, something that reminded House of his mother.

"My lord," said Alloro softly. "You have guests."

The king glanced past Alloro with bright, curious eyes. He stood and approached House and Wilson.

House had to keep from grinning as he suddenly found himself looking at... _himself_. Younger, softer, more pampered living in wealth and comfort over the ages, but still Gregory House. The only marked differences were his green eyes and red hair.

"Welcome to my palace," he said.

For a few moments, House couldn't move. He was so taken by the eerie almost-identical resemblance of this king to himself that it was hard for him to believe it was real.

Finally, he remembered where he was and managed to bow, mustering up what graciousness he could.

"I seek your council," said House, doing his best to sound what he thought was a decent approximation of regal. "My friend is very ill. It's his heart. I'm known as a great healer in my land--where I come from. But I can't seem to find what ails him. I seek your wisdom and help."

The king regarded House with a half-smile, as if either greatly impressed or charmed, House couldn't tell, and it was the fact that he couldn't tell that made him feel suddenly unsettled. He shot Wilson a nervous look, but Wilson only looked astonished and seemed oblivious to House's unspoken warning.

The king shifted his gaze to Wilson, smiled serenely, then turned back to House.

"But your friend is not ill," he said, his voice a bizarre clone of House's voice. Smoother yet grittier, unencumbered yet ancient.

House took a wary step back. "What?"

"House," gritted Wilson.

House turned and saw that Wilson's face was pale, stricken, beaded in sweat. He was clutching his chest again, breaths coming rapidly, taking slow, frightened steps away from the king.

"Why have you come here?" asked the king, narrowing his eyes at House.

"I--"

Wilson groaned and dropped to his knees.

"Wilson?" House moved to help him.

"Stop," said the king loudly. His voice echoed off the jeweled, glistening walls.

Wilson was lying on the floor now, curled up in a ball of pain, his sword scraping the emerald tiles.

"What are you doing to him?" asked House.

The king approached House and reached out to finger one of the gold buttons on his blue coat.

House held perfectly still, unflinching. This close, he could smell the king, and it was the most bizarre thing he'd ever smelled in his life. Like being at home if home had been hosed down in formaldehyde and gypsum powder and left in the Arctic for a hundred years. He was afraid the king had identified the coat he was wearing as Iacomus's, but the king said nothing about it. His fingers drifted down House's sleeve, then took hold of House's hand and lifted it. His calm gaze settled on the silver ring on House's finger.

"He brought you here to kill me," said the king.

"Who?" asked House.

"Me," said the voice.

House looked up and saw Iacomus was there, standing over Wilson. He was holding the sword, having taken it from Wilson's belt. A dark, determined look was in his eyes as he glared at the king.

House couldn't tell if Wilson was unconscious or dead. He wasn't moving.

"Hello, Iacomus," said the king.

"Hello, Aern."

 _Aern_. Aern was the name the banshee had called out, recalled House. Aern was the sea king.

"Are these your puppets?" The king gestured at House and Wilson.

Iacomus hesitated at the word 'puppets.' House noticed it, and so did the king, who smiled.

"You won't kill me," he said. "Look at you. You're still so human. So moral. It must have been torture lying to these innocent men and sending them to their deaths."

"You send all men to their deaths when you bring them here, and sometimes worse," said Iacomus. "Sometimes to madness."

"You thought I wouldn't notice your heart in my chamber?" The king gestured at Wilson. "You thought I wouldn't hear its cadence?"

House looked at Wilson again, wondering if anyone would notice if he went to help him. All he needed to do was get close enough--just enough that Wilson could sense him. Just a hand to his pulse...

The king paused to waved away the elfin guards who'd noticed the scene and were approaching with swords. The guards backed off, but lingered near the entrances and in shadows, ready if needed.

"All that power I gave you," the king went on. "Wasted on trinkets and magic tricks."

"She should have died, Aern," said Iacomus. "She was meant to die when Amber died, but you kept her alive."

"Amber?" House couldn't help himself. "You mean _Wilson's_ Amber?"

"I gave you a gift," said the king to Iacomus. "I thought it would make you happy--being the mortal that you are, far from home, one who so hates death. But you threw it aside as all humans throw aside those things that are the most valuable to them. And now that poor little heart you carry inside of you suffers for it."

"Don't bring him into this," said Iacomus. "It's nothing to do with him."

"Wait a minute," said House. "You said you were cursed. You said you switched hearts with Wilson to escape this guy."

"Of course that's what he told you," said the king. "He fears me, as they all do. I show them glimpses of immortality and purpose, of the greatest freedoms mortal men could ever know, and they cling to it like moths to flames. You humans are so afraid of the dark. So afraid of death."

"You tricked us," said House. "You wanted us to come here."

"Please," said Iacomus. "Don't do this."

"It was you, wasn't it?" asked House, wagging his finger at Iacomus as he recognized those dark, Wilson-eyes in another setting, encased in silver, shining at him in the torch-lit depths of a cave. "You were the guy under the mountain. You told me to take the horse and find the sea king. You were leading us the entire time, right up to this moment. So we would--what? Kill this guy for you?"

"I loved--" Iacomus shook his head, overcome. "Nay, this is not my heart. This grief is too near."

"It is her death you feel," said the king.

"Amber's death?" asked House.

"We all have our mirrors," said the King. "He thought he could find focus with his heart in another, but instead he found only more grief."

"No," said Iacomus.

"You wanted Wilson to kill the king," House went on, heart pounding in his chest as he put together the pieces. "You couldn't get close enough yourself because sometimes rational thought _really does_ win. Even in this place. But Wilson, he's soft, right? He's grieving over his dead girlfriend. You figured his grief and your anger would be enough for murder. And you knew I would do anything to help Wilson, which is why you gave me the ring. You didn't want to protect me, you wanted to lead me."

"I knew you would take it," said Iacomus. "You're just like him. So curious, so determined that you are _right_. I counted on his heart to fight, and I counted on your heart to lead, and I was not wrong."

Iacomus raised his sword again, his anger flaring up as he refocused his attention on the king.

The king did not flinch. "Do you really think this good doctor will let his beloved friend's heart commit murder?" he asked. "My dear Iacomus, do you really think what I did was so wrong? Even those who live forever are afraid to be alone."

"She was not meant to live as a ghost! Warped and restless and unable to love." Iacomus wiped away the tears that had begun streaking his cheeks. "You did everything to save her, but when the time came to let her go, you would not listen to reason."

"You're right," said House.

It was his voice, but he didn't realize he'd even spoken until the king and Iacomus had turned to face him.

House looked over at Wilson, who still lay helpless on the floor.

"I tried to save Amber," House said. "Just like your king did. Because she made Wilson happy. Because she made him fearless."

House took a step closer to Iacomus. He reached out and took hold of the other man's wrist and slowly twisted the sword from his grip. " I know Wilson's not a murderer," he said, meeting those dark eyes with his own.

Iacomus stumbled back, suddenly overwhelmed. He sank to the floor, put his head in his hands, and sobbed.

House let go of the sword he'd taken. It fell to the floor with a loud, echoing clank.

The king reached into his belt and drew out a knife, which he handed to House.

House hesitated.

"You want to go home, do you not?" asked the king. "Iacomus is desperate, but he is also right, and your friend is still very ill."

House took the knife. He knelt on the floor and spread his hand open across an emerald tile. He took a steadying breath, eyeing the silver ring on his finger.

"You can save him if I do this, right?" he asked. "Because it would be pretty anticlimactic if you couldn't."

"Yes," said the king.

House nodded and made a quick, surgical survey of what he was about to cut.

Then he stopped.

"Quickly," whispered the king.

"Wait," said House. "Something's not right." He looked up at the king. "Why would you tell me to cut off my own finger?"

"One finger to save the rest of the body," said the king. "It is the only way."

House wagged the knife at the king knowingly. "That's exactly how a doctor would think. He'd sacrifice a leg to save a life. But I didn't sacrifice my leg. I was selfish and irrational, and Wilson knows that. So how come you don't?"

At the mention of Wilson's name, Iacomus looked up. His sobs had quieted, but his face was flushed and tear-streaked.

"You don't care about Wilson's heart," said House to the king. "An immortal king wouldn't know anything about sacrifice. Finger, heart, it's all the same to you."

"House?" Iacomus sounded worried.

"That's what this is about, isn't it?" asked House. "You knew what Iacomus was doing. You knew he wanted revenge. You knew it the whole time. But you didn't try to stop him because you were curious to see what Wilson and I would do."

"You presume to know my intentions so well?" asked the king.

"This is a cute trick," said House. "You look like me, Jim looks like Jim. But you're not me, and he's not Wilson. Wilson knows I would never give up a finger for him. He also knows I'd give up a lot more for the answer."

"House," whispered Iacomus warily.

House ignored him as he rose to his feet, the king's knife still in his hand.

"It's not his heart you should be worried about," said House. "It's yours."

With a grim face and a set jaw, House extended his arm, pointed the knife blade at his own chest, and plunged it home.

He cried out in pain, then tumbled to the floor.

At the same moment, the king cried out in surprise and shock and clutched at his own heart. He stumbled backwards, gasping for air, and fell into his pool with a terrific splash.

Moments passed as his gurgles faded and his body sagged. He'd drowned to death.

Iacomus rose to his feet, stunned.

Suddenly, House sat upright, and Iacomus jumped back in surprise.

House produced the knife, its blade still clean, and smiled mischievously.

"How--?" Iacomus stared, speechless.

"A stupid magic trick," said House. "Sleight of hand. It didn't even break the skin."

Iacomus stepped forward and touched House's chest in awe. "I swore you were dead."

"So did he. Wasn't that the point?" House handed the knife to Iacomus.

"But what about you? How did you know his death wouldn't kill you?"

House held up his hand and wriggled the silver ring. "You already had Wilson's heart when I met you under the mountain, which means your judgment calls were his, not yours. You told me I'd have to sacrifice my hand if I wanted to save Wilson. But Wilson knew I would never do that, which is why he said it--why _you_ said it--in the first place. To make me question it. Neatest part is, you didn't know it would play out that way. The ring really does protect me. You were telling two truths."

"Remarkable," said Iacomus. "You are as good a judge of character as he is."

"You weren't lying about your version of Amber, though," said House. "I'm sorry."

From the floor, Wilson groaned.

House and Iacomus hurried over to him.

"Wilson? You okay?"

"God, stop asking me that." Wilson rubbed his eyes, then looked around. He couldn't hide his surprise at seeing Iacomus. "How--?" He held up a hand. "Never mind. I don't wanna know."

House looked up when he heard shouts and cries. Alloro and a few of the guards and servants were rushing to the king's aid.

"What happened to him?" asked Wilson, eyeing the king. The elves were easing his body out of the fountain. Some of them were weeping openly.

"Heart attack," said House.

"You must return to your home," said Iacomus, glancing worriedly at the guards. "It's no longer safe for you here."

"How do we do that?" asked House. "He's still got your heart."

The guards were closing in now. Some of them had their weapons ready and were whispering to each other. Some were glaring at House.

"There is only one way to save James's heart," said Iacomus. "And it cannot happen here, in this place."

Iacomus glanced up at the ceiling, where sunlight pierced through the water and glinted against the transparent, jeweled walls in delicate flashes of pale green and yellow. "The sea nymphs will swim you to your home shores," he said.

House and Wilson looked up at the transparent ceiling. House had forgotten--or maybe he'd never quite realized--that they were underwater.

There were more guards now, getting closer, and they didn't look happy.

"You must go," said Iacomus.

"We can't leave you here," said Wilson.

Iacomus smiled. "You don't have a choice." He held out his hand. "Give me your ring."

House looked down, confused.

"Of course it will come off," said Iacomus. "It is only a ring."

With a held breath, House slid the silver ring from his finger with ease.


	8. Chapter 8

He didn't remember the return home.

He only remembered a terrible dream about drowning in the deep, dark water, sharp fingers pulling his hair and pinching his skin.

Then he was awake, feeling heavy and tired, and he could smell dirt, trees, grass, pollution, home.

House blinked awake. He coughed and choked and clawed at the wet grass and pebbled ground. He saw the lake glittering in the afternoon sun: New Jersey. Boring. Perfect.

He saw Wilson lying nearby and crawled over to him.

"Wilson."

House patted him down, checking for a pulse and a sign of eye movement.

Wilson was unconscious, his breaths coming shallow and rapid, his heartbeat fast and weak. His skin felt clammy. House couldn't stick a diagnosis. Tachycardia, hypothermia, fatigue, shock. Nothing seemed right to him. His head was swimming, all of his medical knowledge still coalescing and settling in his addled brain like water swirling in a flushed toilet.

It took him a whole minute to figure out what had happened, where they'd been, the last details of their journey--and approximately two seconds to conclude that he needed to find help.

He dug in his pocket and found his cellphone--still working, thank goodness for waterproof Ericssons--and flipped it open.

"Hang on, Wilson, hang on," he muttered as he pressed the button with shaking hands.

He held the phone to his ear and listened to it ring. He felt like laughing. He was within sight of Princeton-Plainsboro, yet here he was, caneless and helpless, lying on the shores of the lake, forced to call for an ambulance.

Where was a magic wand or a Fell Pony when he needed one?

When the call was finished, and he was sure help was coming, House promptly collapsed on the wet ground, breathless and exhausted, his arm flung across Wilson's.

* * *

They burst through the ER door with House in tow. House shied away from stares and worried looks; he knew he was a sight, wet and limping dramatically like a man who'd had his kneecaps blown out by a shotgun. He was still wearing Iacomus's finely tailored blue coat. But he was more worried about Wilson. "I'm fine," he growled at anyone who came near him. "Do your damn job."

He watched, feeling detached, as the trauma team went to work on Wilson. Part of him wanted to laugh-- _they'll never figure out what's wrong with him_ \--and part of him wanted to find a wizard-- _there had to be wizards hanging out in New Jersey, right? Maybe they were in the phone book._

One of the trauma interns removed the sword belt from around Wilson's hips and held it up, confused, before handing it to a nurse for disposal. The nurse dropped it in a plastic pan and carried it away along with Wilson's shoes while the intern began cutting away Wilson's wet clothes with scissors.

House slowly calmed himself, his confidence in practical medicine returning at the sight of the probably-not-very-capable-but-better-than-nothing medical staff. He wouldn't need to consult the phone book after all, he decided.

He looked around the room, suddenly remembering his own state of affairs. First things first. Walking.

He zeroed in on an elderly gentleman recovering in a nearby bed whose wife was sitting beside him on a stool. They were watching the spectacle of Wilson's arrival with curious dismay.

House approached them.

"He fall in the bathtub?" House asked, pointing at the gentleman's freshly bandaged ankle.

They stared up at him, terrified.

"Relax," said House. "I'm a doctor."

"It was on the front porch," said the wife. "Our-our son's been meaning to fix the steps--"

House heard enough. He reached down and took the elderly man's hospital-issue cane for himself and ignored the wife's protests as he turned and headed for the elevators.

He didn't make it far.

Cameron jogged up to him.

"House!"

House paused to look down at her. She stared at him. Her expression was one of speechless astonishment--at his clothes, his curious absence, the circumstances surrounding his arrival at the hospital.

He spared her the burden of figuring out where to begin. "Nice shoes," he said, before stepping into the elevator and punching the button.

* * *

He found his team in Diagnostics, looking as if they'd been sitting and waiting for him the entire time.

They rose from their seats as he pushed through the glass door. Kutner, Thirteen, Taub--and Foreman and Chase, too.

"House!"

"Are you okay?" They stared openmouthed at his coat and stolen cane, the muddy water drying his hair into stiff peaks.

House ignored the question and nodded at Chase. "You figure out what I asked you?"

He ducked in his office and located a spare bottle of Vicodin in one of his drawers.

"Yeah," said Chase, calling across the glass as House nudged the drawer shut and limped back into the room. "He made a mess of his kitchen."

"So you _didn't_ figure out what I asked you." House shook the bottle, delighting in the comforting rattle of pills, and popped the cap.

Chase retrieved a piece of paper from the table and handed it to him.

House took it and read it as he chowed down on Vicodin, ignoring the scent of rotting lake muck rising up from his damp clothes.

"Is this everything?" he raised a questioning eyebrow at Chase.

"Yep."

"You synthesize it?"

"Took us two trips to the supermarket, two trips to a New Age store, and one trip to a Chinese herbal medicine shop."

"Where is it?" asked House.

"Down in the lab, but--"

House didn't give Chase a chance to finish as he turned and headed out the door.

His fellows hurried after him.

"House, is Wilson okay?" asked Kutner.

"Nope," said House, reaching the elevator and jamming the button with his stolen cane. His team pushed into the elevator with him as the doors slid shut and the elevator descended.

"Are _you_ okay?" asked Chase.

"I will be. Once Miss V and I are reacquainted." He took another Vicodin, then tossed the bottle to Thirteen. "Hang onto that."

House attracted dozens of openmouthed stares on his way to the lab. He ignored them all, pushed open the glass doors, and ordered everyone out with threats of sneezing on petri dishes.

He went straight to the cooler where a telltale, mint-colored _something_ sat innocently on the refrigerated shelf in a Pyrex jar.

"Bona fide Wilson milkshake." House opened the stainless steel glass door and took out the chilled jar. He lifted it to his lips as if to drink.

"You can't drink it! House!" Chase rushed forward.

"Relax. Just a taste." House licked his lips. "Wow, minty. Like mint with curry and--" he scanned the list of ingredients still in his hand. "Well, like curry with apple juice? Weird."

"House's there's hemlock in there," said Chase. "Ragwort. Jimsonweed. All toxic."

"You wasted your hard-earned money at a New Age store buying _weeds_? You could've ripped them up from the curb out front."

"Sorry, we didn't think of that," said Foreman dryly.

House closed the door to the cooler and headed out of the lab. He passed the jar to Kutner to carry as he continued reading Chase's list of ingredients

"I didn't even know there was such a thing as _eye of newt_."

"House, where are we going?" asked Taub.

"Giving the milkshake a test run."

They arrived in the ER moments later, and House looked around at the suspiciously empty bay.

"Where is he?"

"Wilson's in the cardiac ICU," said Cameron.

House frowned and immediately turned on his heel. "Jesus, you people really know how to make life difficult for an asshole with a cane. Okay, kids. Back upstairs."

"House, he needs rest!" called Cameron.

"He needs a heart more!" House called back.

Finally, he found Wilson. Tucked away in a sterile corner of the cardiac ICU. Hooked up to a drip, intubated, cuffed to the bed to keep from struggling on whatever psychotic drugs the cardiac doctors had pushed into his bloodstream.

House stood in the doorway, caught for a moment by the sight. He crossed the floor to Wilson's bed and started pulling out tubes.

"House! What are you doing?"

His team surrounded him like the good little doctors they were, plugging lines back in as House unplugged, flipping machines back on as he switched them off.

"You're insane!" hissed Foreman.

"It's useless," said House. He pointed at the Pyrex Kutner was holding. "That's the only thing that's going to save him."

"Why, because you went to Fairyland, and that's what the goblins told you?"

House stilled. "They weren't goblins."

"You can't give that to him," said Taub. "It's poison. It'll kill him. It's amazing it didn't kill you."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Socrates and Seneca. I got it. No more reckless milkshaking for Doctor House."

He moved forward again. Chase and Foreman pushed him back, and Taub snatched the Pyrex out of Kutner's hand. House found himself ushered to a chair and forced to sit. His team blocked his path to the bed.

He laughed at them. "What are you going to do, tackle me to the floor?"

"We can't let you poison him," said Chase.

"You're sick," said Foreman. "You've obviously been through hell. You're not thinking clearly."

House sighed and looked from face to face. His gaze finally fixed on Thirteen.

"You know why the Mayans had a thirteen-day week in their calendar?" he asked. "Because they didn't care about tying themselves to the sky. They measured time based on the length of human pregnancy, not the stars."

"Brilliant," said Foreman. "What the hell does that have to do with Wilson?"

"It means she knows I'm not crazy." House pointed at Thirteen. "You can call yourself a retired Wiccan all you want, but why did you become one in the first place?"

"I told you, it was a teenage fad."

"Because you trusted the world to take care of itself without you," said House. "That's what neopagans do. That's what real pagans _did_. Because it's not always about following the standard and accepted rule. Poisons don't have to be poisonous."

Thirteen smoothed her hair nervously with both hands. Then she moved forward, pushing past Chase and Foreman, and took the ingredients list from House and read.

"There's willow in this," she said after a moment. "And gum arabic. Where would Wilson get willow?"

"Where would Wilson get catnip or shoe polish?" asked Foreman. "There are a thousand impossibly weird ingredients in that stuff. Any one of them could kill you."

"Compressed charcoal's made from willow and gum arabic," said House.

"Hospitals use charcoal to treat poisons," said Kutner. "It absorbs gas in the digestive system."

"They put it in ice cream," said Thirteen. She looked at House. "Maybe Wilson really was making a milkshake."

"Why would Wilson make a cure for poison by using half a dozen other poisons?" asked Foreman.

"Because those other poisons aren't really poisons," said House. "Don't you people read your Paracelsus? They're only toxic in large amounts. But in very small amounts, they're beneficial. Everything on this list has been used by medical science to cure something."

Chase took the list for himself. "It's all carminative," he said, reading. "Curry powder, chamomile, mayapple. Except for the glycosides. Cure or not, your milkshake's full of oleandrin. That'll kill anything."

"House, if you drank any of that, you're going to need your stomach pumped," said Taub.

"I only licked the rim."

"So now what do we do?" asked Chase. "Obviously you had us pull this slush apart for nothing. And Wilson's still sick."

"Make him take it," said House, pointing past them.

They all turned and saw the man standing in the doorway. He was with Cuddy, who'd obviously escorted him there, and he looked amazingly like Wilson. He was still wearing his dark tunic and cape, the hood thrown back, dark hair tousled by crud and wind.

House moved to the door and shook hands with him.

"I came as soon as I could," said Iacomus. "You left quite a mess in your wake."

"I'm surprised they didn't kill you," said House.

"They let me go," said Iacomus. "They let all of us go."

House nodded. "Thank you for coming," he said quietly.

"Are you going to explain this?" asked Cuddy.

House scratched his eyebrow thoughtfully. "Back in 12th Century England, King Henry used to throw these wild parties for his knights, all of whom happened to have the same name--William. As a joke, they locked the doors of the castle and refused to let anyone who _wasn't_ named William join in the fun."

"That's a charming story," said Taub.

"It was impossible to find a knight in the 12th century who _wasn't_ named William," said House. "The name Wilson means William's son. Just like Thompson is Tom's son and Benson is Ben's son. And the name Iacomus--" House touched Iacomus on the shoulder--"is the Latin form of James. Everyone, I'd like you to meet James, Will's son. James, this is everyone."

Iacomus nodded politely at them. "How do you do."

"Normally, he doesn't talk like that," House assured them. "Normally, he speaks Breton. Because that's where he's from. Very cool language, too. Sounds like you're swearing while trying to slurp up milk."

"I'm Catalan," said Iacomus.

"Just play along," said House.

"House, this is insane," said Foreman.

House pointed at the Pyrex jar of goop. "If we give _this_ James the milkshake, _our_ James will get better."

"Are we talking about a magical connection between worlds?" asked Taub. "Reincarnated twins? Wilson and his fairy god brother?"

"Sure," nodded House.

"And you think a magical milkshake will fix _our_ Wilson's heart?"

"No, but a poisonous milkshake will kill this heart and let the other one live."

Chase took the Pyrex jar. "You want this complete stranger to drink this?"

"He's not a complete stranger. He's Wilson. Only he's from another century. And European. And a knight."

"This is my doing," said Iacomus. "I wish to set things right."

"Type his blood if you don't believe me," said House. "Bet it matches Wilson's. Bet his fingerprints are the same, too."

"Okay," said Foreman smugly, stepping forward. He shook hands with Iacomus. "I'm Eric Foreman."

"How do you do?" smiled Iacomus.

"Would you come with me, please?"

"Of course."

For the next three hours, as Wilson's heart monitor beeped away and oxygen was pumped into his suffering lungs as he lay unconscious and waiting, the fellows tapped Iacomus's veins, typed his blood, and matched his DNA.

The results were undeniable.

"He's his twin," said Cuddy, sounding amazed yet vaguely disturbed as she stood in House's office, the DNA results in her hands.

"Not quite," said House, who was holding up a piece of film to see it better against the window's light. "Biological material's identical, but they weren't born at the same time. Or from the same mother."

"House, if they're twins--"

"X-rays are different," said House. He hung up several films on the light box. "This is our Jimmy. This is warrior-Jimmy. Different teeth."

"Same teeth," said Cuddy, studying the light box.

"Different wear and tear," said House. "Just like in the femur. And ribs. And vertebrae. Bone wears down and gets smoother over time. Wilson's are normal for a guy his age, but warrior-Jimmy's are different. Too smooth to be young, too dense to be old."

Cuddy squinted at the X-rays. "That could be from lifestyle differences."

"You really believe that?"

"You expect me to believe something more insane like Wilson having a nine-hundred-year-old twin?"

"More like _nineteen_ hundred years old," said House. "His sword's Carolingian."

"I'm pretty sure that doesn't mean he's also Carolingian."

House switched off the light box. "I know this sounds insane, but it's not. It's different rules."

"House, you don't even like rules."

"Just because I break rules doesn't mean I don't think they're interesting. Rules tell a lot about people. What they're afraid of. What they need. Look, all I'm asking you to do is break one little rule here. And it's not even that big of a rule. It's not even a commandment."

Cuddy sighed.

"Come on," said House, touching her arm. "Pretty please?"

"I need more proof," said Cuddy.

House licked his lips. "Fine."

* * *

Iacomus was sitting in the chair beside Wilson's bed when they arrived. Kutner was sitting in another chair, and Thirteen was leaning against the wall next to him, arms folded across her chest, looking tired. The other doctors--Chase, Foreman, and Taub--were no where to be found.

"Party over already?" asked House, feigning disappointment as he arrived with Cuddy.

"They're double-checking their results," said Kutner. "But we, uh, didn't think it was necessary."

"Too unbelievable?"

"Too obvious," said Thirteen, nodding at the bed.

House looked over at Wilson just as Iacomus took hold of Wilson's hand.

At Iacomus's touch, Wilson's troubling heart rate slowed to something closer to normal.

House stared, amazed.

"We noticed it after he sat down," said Kutner. "It comes and goes. It's better when he makes contact, but even his presence seems to help. Something to do with the proximity."

"He gets better when you're here, too," said Thirteen.

"Yeah," agreed Kutner. "Not as noticeable, but still better."

"Are they really twins?" asked Thirteen, eyeing the form Cuddy was carrying.

"No," said House. "I'm about to prove to Cuddy that they're something more. Feel free to hang out and watch the magic trick."

House's words captured Iacomus's attention. He turned and regarded House strangely as House removed an object from his pocket. It was a photograph.

"Amber," said House, identifying the blonde woman in the photo he'd stolen from Wilson's desk. He handed it to Iacomus.

At first, nothing happened. House wasn't even sure anything would.

As Iacomus continued to hold Wilson's hand while gazing at the photo, however, Wilson's heart rate picked up. His vitals improved, his blood pressure rose. His sinus rhythm increased.

At the same time, Iacomus's features began to break down--slowly at first, until they could all see it: guilt, rage, despair, immeasurable love.

He swallowed a sudden sob and held the photograph to his cheek. "Where does this come from?" he asked, voice choked, face flushed.

Beside him, the machines beeped, and Wilson's unconscious lungs continued to breathe at a healthier pace.

Satisfied, House took the photograph from Iacomus and tucked it back in his pocket. He touched Iacomus's shoulder. "I'm sorry I did that," he said quietly.

Iacomus sniffled and nodded his understanding. He wiped his face on his sleeve.

"I'll get you whatever you need," said Cuddy.

* * *

"Are you sure you wanna do this?" asked House.

The room was empty except for the three of them--House, Wilson, and Iacomus. The blinds had been closed. No nurses would be coming to visit them. Cuddy had made sure of everything.

"Yes," said Iacomus. He tightened his grip on Wilson's hand.

He'd explained how the switch would be performed. No surgery, no blood, no real organs, but things would change. And because these were new rules for a new game, House had accepted the information without much difficulty.

Now, Iacomus's forearm lay on the bed, bound to Wilson's with a piece of soft tree bark that Thirteen had pulled from a young birch behind the hospital.

Kutner had drawn the alchemical triangle of air on the back of both their hands. House had scoffed at the symbol at first, but Iacomus had said it wouldn't do any arm, so he allowed it.

"Now, it is merely a matter of killing one heart to let the other live," said Iacomus.

"Easier said than done," said House, who was holding the cool Pyrex jar in his lap. The strange, minty scent of Wilson's milkshake was making him feel lightheaded.

"The rosagenin will probably hit you first," said House, breaking down the poison. "You'll start to suffocate and convulse, probably vomit. Atropine and scopolamine will kick in after that. It'll be painful, but it'll happen pretty quickly. Once the oleandrin slows your heart down, you'll fall into a coma. If you manage to live that long."

"And then death?" asked Iacomus.

House nodded. "Sucks."

Iacomus adjusted the binding around his and Wilson's wrists to make sure it was secure. Once again, House found himself reeling slightly at the juxtaposition of medieval warrior and middle-aged oncologist locked together in a sterilized plastic hospital room.

He picked up the Pyrex jar, then hesitated, unable to hand it over.

"A good doctor understands when to save lives and when to let go," said Iacomus, taking the jar from him. "At least, that is the way it is in my world."

"Wilson's a good doctor," said House. "Even crazy, he knew what to do. He knew how to fix everything, and I wasn't listening."

"There's a difference between knowing and doing," said Iacomus.

House nodded. "Yeah. No chance you could make it back for Christmas? Maybe reincarnated as a magical Wilson unicorn or something?"

Iacomus smiled gently. "Goodbye, House."

House nodded soberly. "Yeah. See ya."

He watched Iacomus lift the jar to his lips. He watched him drink... and drink... and drink. Until the jar was empty.

House took the empty jar and set it aside as Iacomus began to unhook his belt with hands that were already shaking. He pulled the sword that had been hanging from his hip onto his lap. The sword's jeweled pommel shone mutedly in the cool, white light from the window.

"For James," said Iacomus, passing the sword to House. "See that he gets it."

"Okay," said House. He took the sword into his own lap.

"Be careful with him," said Iacomus. "There's only one of him now."

House nodded, blinking quickly so Iacomus wouldn't suspect tears. "You got it," he said.

Beside them, Wilson's feeds slowly improved as House watched--watched it all. One man died as the other came back to life.


	9. Epilogue

Wilson strolled onto the dock, hands in his jacket pockets. He stood gazing at the dark, serene waters of Lake Carnegie.

He felt good, fresh from lunch with Cuddy, dressed in his favorite shirt and the red checked tie that always won him compliments from the nurses. As he blinked in the orange sunlight and breathed the warm afternoon air, he thought nothing could make his day better.

"Catch anything?" he asked.

"Salami's not working," said House. He was sitting to Wilson's right, armed with the new fishing pole Wilson had bought him.

"Try cheese," said Wilson. "Catfish will eat anything."

"Eventually. When I get tired of salami." House looked up at him. "How's the ticker?"

"Fine. How's the leg?"

"Still hurts," said House.

Wilson sat down beside him and let his legs dangle over the edge of the dock above the sparkling water. For several moments, both men were quiet as they watched House's fishing bob dance atop the soft waves. Wilson had never seen water so dark and green. It reminded him of old wine bottles.

"The British Museum called me back this morning," said Wilson.

"Yeah?"

"They had a good laugh when I told him about the sword."

"They wanna buy it?" asked House.

"I asked for an appraisal, and they asked me if I'd be willing to come to England." Wilson chuckled to himself as he remembered the condescending voice of the curator's assistant over the telephone. "They also asked me if it was made of metal."

House laughed.

"They wouldn't know what to do with a sword like that, anyway," he said. "Fifteen hundred years old. They'd probably wanna see the TARDIS you used to steal the thing."

"You really think it's... you know. Joyeuse?" asked Wilson.

"You're the literature expert, not me. What does Roland say?"

"That Charlemagne's sword changed color thirty times a day," said Wilson.

"Wow. Thirty times, huh?"

"Yeah."

House reeled in his line, and Wilson watched as he switched to yellow cheese bait.

"You ever think about it?" asked Wilson.

House cast his line and brought up the slack.

"'Bout what?"

Wilson made an isn't-it-obvious gesture with his hands. " _All that stuff_ we went through. _Why_ we have the sword to begin with."

"I try not to. Except when you remind me, of course."

"I feel like I'm going to forget," said Wilson. "One of these days I'm going to wake up, and it'll all be gone. As if it never happened."

"And that would be bad?" House shrugged. "I would mind a little eternal sunshine."

Wilson gave him a look. "Come on, House. You can't tell me that didn't change you. At least a little bit."

Wilson remembered all of it--the journey across the lake, the horses, the elves, the underwater palace. It seemed like a dream. Even the most surprising memory--waking up in the hospital and finding his heart inexplicably healed, Iacomus gone, and House inexplicably weeping--that hadn't seemed quite real, either.

The only real memory he had--and the one he knew he would never lose--was hearing House's version of things afterward. The entire story, told in secret at Wilson's bedside over takeout Chinese food so no one would think he was crazy, the conviction with which House had spoken, his grief over Iacomus's death, his relief that Wilson had lived, House's eerie description of the strange knight's last moments, the poison, everything.

"He gave you all new rules to learn," Wilson had said after hearing House's story.

"Just like you try to do every day?" House had raised his eyebrows skeptically before biting into an egg roll. The conversation had ended when the hockey game came back on TV, but Wilson had smiled a silent "Yes."

"House?" Wilson watched as House stared at his fishing bob in the water. "Any change at all?"

"I'm never eating fish again," said House. "If that's what you mean."

Wilson narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Then what are we doing here?"

"Don't worry," said House. "If I catch anything, I promise I'll throw it back."


End file.
